a little why

I still can’t write fiction. I wish I could but I can’t. Haven’t been able to since I was 17.

But there are times when I’m able to put my feelings into words, elusive feelings that want to remain at large. When I’m able to catch up with them, shake them loose, and make them trickle out it ends in satisfaction. And it may not be well-written or it may be (depending on what you like to read), maybe someone likes the writing, maybe no one likes it, but it’s out there, outside me and I can read the feelings and, through that, accept them (ah, so this is what that was…/the culprit is caught!) and, in that moment, that’s all that matters.


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