Been picking at the idea like one picks at a week old scab, that I should give up writing stories. I don’t drink enough to call myself an alcoholic, through you shake my family tree and several or more would fall out, never spilling a drop, nor am I an addict either to pill or to needle.
Therefore, I’ve come to realize that I will never be a giant in the field of writing, because I haven’t a truly singular voice. Nope, mine is a conglomeration of those who’ve written what I’ve read, my grand-folks, parents and the little kid next door.
Taking my rightful place at the back of the line, I should simply journal, make a record of my days, nights, things in between. After all, I’m not writing to live, rejection notices abound on this fact, but rather living to write, where the words are free and the view is stressless.
Besides, who needs another writer, we’re a dime a dozen and each of us has a tale to tell and oft times it is the same tale, only using different words. So, whadda ya say, shall I go forth with the Diary of a Mad Writer?