So, I'm a writer.

Well, actually I just like to write. I can't really claim the title of 'Writer' because A. I don't live in L.A. or Hollywood, and B. I can never seem to finish anything. Ever.

Sure, sure, every once in a while, I'll manage to force myself to the end of a short story. Once, I even won third place in a short story contest for this one. Sometimes I churn out complete thoughts, usually inspired by songs (for example, Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru produced this, and Lacuna Coil's Comalies brought about one of my longer stories).

Still most of my ideas dissolve before I finish the first page. I could absolutely force myself to continue writing, but I've always thought (and was thrilled to find Stephen King felt the same) that forced writing is the kind that produces wooden characters and dull plots. If it isn't itching at the tips of your fingers, there's little reason to put it on paper.

It's pretty frustrating. I love writing, creating characters and worlds, sometimes making them feel as real as the people I see everyday. And why couldn't they? You don't know anything about the people you pass in traffic, or that guy sitting in front of you on the bus. How do you know it's not his or her or their story you're telling?

You don't. And maybe that's the draw of writing. Still, a writer doesn't really have control over their characters. I know most of you probably don't believe that, but it's true. The characters, in a way, are unique entities -- everything that happens in a story happens because of them, not the writer. The writer is just a channel.

Ask Mr. King.

Either way, I don't know why I can't follow through with anything (and I wish it was only my writing aspect of my life that that applied to), but it drives me nuts and sometimes I want to tear my hair out and put mustard in my eyes. Yes, mustard.

My latest half-work is this little bugger. I love this one. No exaggeration. I think, finished, it'll be an amazing novel. I'm generally modest, but I have never doubted my writing ability, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. If I could actually sit down with no distractions and just write, I think I could have a cushy life in store. Unfortunately, though, I can't, and that, so I'm stuck working full time in an office that's forty minutes away. Do you know how much I spend on gas each week?

I guess, in conclusion, I really recommend that you do what you really want to, and do it well, or else you won't do it at all ("What is she even saying?").

In my fear and flaws

I let myself down again

All because

I run

'Til the silence splits me open

I run

'Til it puts me underground

'Til I have no breath

And no roads left but one