... has been laying fairly [and fearly] dormant for quite some while. Spurting puffs of brilliance while I lay in bed, drive to work, teach a lesson or relax in my bath. But never while I sit in front of my lappy. Why is that?
The writer in me is a lazy, insecure, wild, procrastinating genius. I love her dearly. But she needs to get her shit together. and soon. I know. This country is stifling her creativity. It's suffocating me too. But I need her to keep fighting. Because this is forever. This writing thing. it's us. it's who we are. It's who we were meant to be.
This bitch inside of me is writing a fucking amazing story. My story. Our story. I am merely her vessel. these fingers, ready, willing and capable of transferring words to "paper". These stories. within me. inside my brain. my mind.
was born to write.