August 18, 2005

The Author Within

I often find myself coming back to the concept that I should be a writer, or at the very least write stories in my spare time. The funny thing about this idea is that I never have the inclination to actually sit down and attempt to write something. Anything for that matter. This "need" to write feeling probably stems from the many books I read. I read a lot, in an average week I read at least three books. As I read, and re-read, all these books, I think this desire to write builds within me. Yet it never becomes an obsession. Never once have I felt the burning need to sit down and write a book, novel or short story. Yet I still want to write. It's this inescapable desire that just holds on enough to remain eternal, without ever growing into something concrete.

Even as I write this, I feel this need to write something, anything at all, that I might consider showing someone. In truth, I don't have anything to say. I should have something to say, in fact if you meet me, I'll talk all day long. Withheld from me is that something special, that defining experience or moment that will scream at me, demand of me, action.

I think I have to travel. I have to get out of this same old scene. Moving from Hamilton to Ottawa was great, and I have learned untold facts about myself. But I think it is time I got out there, and "wandered the earth", to quote Pulp Fiction. So I plan to do that. Starting sometime early 2006 I plan to leave this scene, and explore the world, and hopefully myself.

I really should expand the previous paragraph, and maybe I will, but right now I am tired and thus say goodnight.