A long time ago, I was very big into writing. I wrote on every scrap of paper I found.. and at one point it was all I wanted to do. I wanted to be a professional writer. These days.. not so much.
I love writing.. I really, really do.. But I don't think I'll ever be as awesome as Calvin who managed to get published (and will repeat the awesomeness soon..?), or be as eloquent as Meethz, or as imaginative as Quincey. Lucky for me, I count these people as close friends and I can bask in their awesomeness and grin.
No, this post isn't about me feeling sorry for myself..
I once had a writing journal. The front of the book was full of prompt words and situations, short excerpts and a target number of words, and the back.. was empty except for one entry titled 'Do You Understand'. I don't remember writing it (I never remember my own writing, I'm even amazed at school assignments I completed when I came across them..), and I see a lot of things I wanted to tweak.. but I was strangely proud of myself. Well.. of the 'me' that wrote it. It made me go immediately on a quest to find a pen, so I can scribble some more.
I once had a chat with Quincey about where our passion for writing went, and how much we missed it. Well, I'm going to see if I can get it back. So here's a project I'm setting up for myself.. One piece every fortnight. I'm going to write a short piece and post it on the net.. somewhere. I'm too embarrassed to share the link, but I might.. someday.
Wish me luck.