Upon becoming a great writer one must practice their work. It is how the human mind progresses, but what if the desire… the passion for the artwork leisurely withers leaving you feeling empty and lost all at the same time because your only plan was taken from you.
Sure some can say you must persist and it will come back to you or to continue any way because great skill is something never forgotten, but once you view the words written upon the paper you realize the emotion gathered behind each word has vanished.
For the longest of time I could only imagine what great novel I could produce on my own. The dream seemed so within reach and I knew I had the potential it was just a matter of finishing the manuscript, but never did it occur to me that the desire would die before the story had an ending. Every great story needed an end, if there wasn’t one the audience becomes furious with their questions of why and how? So I knew that day the pencil needed to be placed down.
Here I am now scribbling down random words to subdue the monster in my mind hoping by producing the weakest of works even if it has no goal but to reveal my thoughts, I had accomplished something. A couple paragraphs written strictly by me, but I want more. Yet… I’m worried it’s all beginning to slither away from me. The artwork itself…
