May 27, 2010

It's suckitis day. Here I sit, my mind wanders around the room looking for words and catchy phrases, a few clues perhaps. But where is my muse? The one who guides me through the story, lets me see the characters clearly. Not here. Not here in my abyss. Somewhere between all the gray matter creative cells exist. Lately, for the last four years, they've remained mysteriously hidden. Killed off by reckless comments by meaningful "friends" who will remain anonymous. Friends who refer to themselves as writers - and yes they do write. But not in my style, so where do they come into my picture? They write without creativity. I do. My words have theme and motif...follow some sort of pattern. But I blame myself for releasing my works to the masses before they were ready - to the masses of those unprepared for my style. They only know their own, after-all. Why am I feeling such a grudge against them which drips into my work? I don't want to feel so abandoned by them, yet I do. Ramblings continue within the circuits, for no one to understand, at least no one in the realm of company I kept. Sometimes I think I need a new circle of writer-friends. Ones who get it. Ones with a small bit of degree to back up their claims of glory. Some semblance of writing balance in their curriculum vitae. I'm doing my part to add to mine - now I need friends with the same mind set. I'm sure they are out there. I just need to dig.