As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. Stephan King infected me with the bug (the cheeky bastard), opening wide the third eye and allowing all kinds hornsnozzling whangdoodles in. I came to appreciate the reading curriculum they gave us in English class, and still count some of them as my favorite books. Overtime my interest in the craft changed the way I perceived the world. My ADHD limits my both my memory and attention to fine details. I worry more and more every day that it could be getting worse. Being interested in writing, and by extension reading, helps me keep my mind active. Ideas have come and gone over the last ten years, my twenties almost done and I feel like I'm in panic mode. I have at least two projects I've started but haven't had to guts to follow through on. Projects I know could be something special, even if they're just bargin bin fodder. Luckily there's my muse. Let me explain my relationship with her. For the most part she's a soft spoken and gentle little lady. Then I get lazy, down right petrified than I'm not good enough at anything. That's when her eyes grow cold with silent fury, her cheeks and lip puff out and her eyebrows twitch. Poor girl deserves a medal for putting with my bullshit. She's no bitch, but she's downright ruthless when she needs to be. She grabs me by the shoulders like William Dafoe in The Last Temptation, "I command you to stand up!" She drags me back to the keyboard, while blubber and wail about my petty existential crises and short comings. She won't hear none of it! So here I sit while she sits across the room and glowers at me until I finish. My fingers do all the work from there I swear. I'm not this articulate in real life, my speech is a lot more, "huh, uh, um, ah, and I dunno." (Please note that the muse is not a real person, or based on a real person) Sometimes I look back on some really good pieces I've done, and they feel unfamiliar to me. I created this? Me? I spend so much time these days isolated that I don't have a clear sense of worth sometimes. Yet, the writing keeps bringing me back. I can get a real sense of satisfaction out of it. I love to write, it's all I have. I've been in an unproductive funk for awhile and googled solutions. I feel like I've dug myself into a hole, and I want out. There's not really anyone in my life that can connect with or talk about this stuff with. It's always just been me and my thoughts. I think its hurting me and it definitely prevents me from being the writer that I want to be. I'm generally a soft spoken person who like fantasy and horror a lot. Something about the likes of Lovecraft, it helps put all the horrible shit in the world into a more bearable perspective. We all grew up looking up to fantastic heroes, literary or otherwise. Conan and Batman did more to teach me than any sleazoid adult ever did. Any way, a site suggested that I should engage more with other people that write so, here I am. I'm hoping that by talking to people here will motivate me to keep working, until that fabled day when I do finish a manuscript and get it published.