I made a decision to start writing again. I told my writing friend, Cherie, that on Friday I would purchase a notebook and a pen. No more I-can't-get-to-the-computer excuses. Well, I didn't get the notebook - I did get the pen. I sat down and the only things I could think to write about were the death of my son and a horrible fight I had with my husband. Neither are subjects I think anyone wants to read about, but that's all I had. So, I wrote it out, then crumpled the paper and threw it in the woodstove. Does that count, does it count as a fulfilling my promise to myself when no one else ever sees the words?
I'm not sure I've got any story ideas left in my head. I worry that the space I previously used for a creative side is now filled with endless money-making schemes. In my quest to get my head above water again (water=debt these days) I have fully squelched any creative urge I used to possess.
Oh poor me. Boo-hoo. What a baby.
My husband is home. I just I'm done for now. Not sure this counts either.