Despite my earlier whining, I still didn’t get much done today. Sometimes you just have to give in.
I went through a curious period, but in between all the narcissistic and self-absorbed rants about the church, faith, society, and patriotism, there was a lot going on. This was a period when my grandpa died, I found out a good friend was anorexic and had attempted suicide, I learned of the death of a high school classmate, and my parents remarried, among other things. For part of that time we held our breath whenever the phone rang.
While I blabbered on about wanting to write a book every few months, I stumbled across some interesting fiction writing, much of it based on what I was going through. Much of that fiction hits me now in a much deeper way. Those fiction exercises worth noting include one inspired by my grandfather’s death, an older one written in response to my ex-girlfriend losing her mom, and a plethora of writings about anorexia (1, 2, 3, and 4).
This is why I write. Not for you, but for me.