It is time. It is time to write something to completion. I think I have the idea that I want to try to paint. I am so judgmental of myself, but I need this. I need to write this for me. Just for me. I have characters forming and ideas bubbling.
It may be only three pages but it is something. It makes me feel like something. Writing is not my livlihood by any means, which in my very very tactical and practical Scorpio brain puts it very low on my priority list. I do not rank my happiness highly on what is important to me. I just don’t, I hope that I will be happy when the task is complete. It is something I am trying to change about myself. Me myself more interested in what makes me happy.
Telling stories makes me happy.
Turning my two minute trip to the bathroom into a long-winded prose makes me smile. Makes other people smile, it makes me feel good. I write to feel good. I thought I always had to write with other people in mind, but I’m burying that. I’m going to write a novel that I want to read. Something that I made for me, and no one else.
Many of my passions involve making thins better for other people, but this one I am doing for me. I hope it helps someone see something in a new light or have new ideas, but what gets my pen to paper is my desire to be happy.