I may not be the best writer. I may not even be a writer you like. I could be the worst writer you’ve ever come across…
I shit the bed at grammar. Sometimes I overlook typos in an eagerness to finish up. I write run-ons and streams of consciousnesses that would horrify any literature professor.
I get comments and emails and tweets that tell me I suck. I get called names and am picked apart by all types.
Sometimes, I hate my own fucking writing.
Sometimes, I read what I posted and cringe.
But I never stop. I can’t stop. I am not capable of stopping.
That shit post? It’ll be pushed down the front page of my blog by newer, better posts.
The hecklers? I’d like to see them write something half as entertaining as I can, and if they can, well, then I’ve found a new writer to read.
The grammar nazis, spelling patrol and run-on rangers? If technicalities made the artist, we would never have enjoyed Picasso, Kerouac or Bluegrass.
I am a writer. Sometimes, I need to take a step back and look in the mirror and remind myself that I am not in it to please anyone but myself. Sometimes, I need to take a break and catch my breath and remember why the fuck I do this.
I do this, because if I didn’t, I simply would not be able to live.
Sorry I’ve been a little distant lately. I just needed a little break. Mommy’s back.