I’ve loved writing as far back as I can remember (as evidenced by my first grade story “My Trip To the Moon” that my mom so proudly displays in her little apartment). As much as I love it, my inner critic (I need to think of a name for that hobag) always tells me my writing is bland and no one cares. I just decided I don’t care if it sucks and no one cares. I am writing for me.
Like one of my idols, Jack Kerouac, I am writing this BLOG because we are all going to die. I am writing for myself in the hopes others may enjoy or get something from it, but if nothing else I find it cathartic and who knows when this life will end.
Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.