writer.

I've been plagued with stories over the last month. I've always wanted to write. In a dream world, where people could do whatever they wanted no matter the salary, I wanted to be an author. I wanted to make up stories, fantastical ones, removed from reality. Some days, I'll re-read some of my passages of halted stories from years past and think "Damn, I'm good. I should really write something." And other days, I'll laugh out loud at my audacity to think I'm a writer.

But whether your published or not, good or not, does not mean you're a writer.

I think writing is this beautiful, cathartic, necessary thing. Everything should do it, even if its for private consumption.

Anyway, lately, because I've been reading so much (I think I've hit over 60 books in the last 30 days. Granted most of these are dirty romance, but books nonetheless) stories having been flowing in and out of my brain matter like spirits on the river Styx. I want to write it all down, get the voices of the characters and the backgrounds out of my head, where they consume my thoughts and dreams. But before, in the past, as soon as I start writing and give voice to the characters, they go away, satisfied. And I lose interest. Its like short, gentle purge and then I'm empty, left to dry-heave, uselessly.

And I like the voices right now. I'm so lonely down here with no one during my month of break that sometimes I think the fictional, made-up characters are all I have. And maybe that's why they exist.