Wrong way, write way.

I've always enjoyed writing, maybe more so in high school when the accomplishment of finishing and twisting yet another essay title as far out of context as it could go always allowed me a sporadic sense of creative high. Yet after high school, I rarely had the chance to spew characters, ideas, and worlds onto paper and even blogged only rarely. Ekhem. Oh, but I have not lost that love for where else would I turn to when an idea spun a particularly sticky web in my head?

Lacking the gift of gab, my ideas translate more directly instead into ink on paper, materialising more simply than if I tried to bend the air to my thoughts.

This year, I considered joining NaNoWriMo, even wrote a little of the first chapter. But that idea stayed sane and did not spin out of control and so I left it alone deeming it 'not meant to be'. These days, I write no story but my own and lacking as it is in sense or entertainment, I write it in lieu of the Dory-days I should suffer in the future. *shudder*

As it is, my mind has made space for more recent memories by pushing back older, fonder memories into the dark dusty storage space at the back of my mind. They struggle to resurface, however, and sometimes they succeed. Like the other day I found myself remembering that I used to lie on the cold marble floor in my grandparents' home as a child playing with cars or coloring. Ah, carefree days when all I did was have fun and that would bring joy to all who loved me. What a funny notion that is now.

Though perhaps they'd be thinking 'Since you like writing so much, shouldn't you be working on bettering your CV since it seems not to be working?' And here I'll have to concede and slink offline. Jaa ne~