Keep It er, Gay. . .

So, I’m thinking. Which by itself is “a dangerous pastime, I know.” And I’m listening to The Producers Original Broadway cast recording. The journal lies unused. I haven’t written anything in a long, long time. Nothing of consequence, anyway. I have a tendency to write little storylets–characterizations, events, bits of dialogue–that don’t seem to be connected to one another.

Maybe I’m just not focusing. | inner voice: Ya think?! |

I’d like to finish something for once. Anything. Something all the way to completion. Which was why Write Club was nice. Granted, I never really had anything to contribute, but seeing people with works in progress was quite inspiring.

Do I need more time to write? No. My social life (or lack thereof) attests to that fact. There’s plenty of time. There’s a bit of weak spirit. I know that for a fact. Not a lack of ability, but a lack of confidence in it. Ironic, that I’m writing these thoughts out.