The title says it all, ladies and germs. It's REFLECTION TIME. Oooooh.
I haven't realized until now how much less I've enjoyed writing since I decided to become a writer. 2 years ago. I've made a difficult but necessary choice: if I want to write, I can't be a writer. Sounds paradoxical, hm? Well, not quite. The pressure of putting out is just too much for me; my work becomes all craft and no art. I think the only way I can write what I really want to write is by doing it just for the sake of it, and nothing else. Being an overachiever has rocketed me through school, but I've come to learn that it's poison when it comes to art.
Is it me, or is the novel 1984 waaaaay too drawn out?
Oh, hey, who wants to see some of my art? I just started drawing a couple months ago.