lamenting, just one of those bad days for no apparent reason. whining and cribbing about how i'd never be a writer got a friend of mine to read my blog, and as he read he looked at me quizzically and asked "where's the stuff you don't put up?" somehow echoing a certain other friend. so desperate i was to receive some sort of positive contribution that i opened a few documents, all incomplete drafts from the last three months. and after a couple of minutes, he leaned back on his elbows, like he was very tired, nodded a couple of vague compliments, and changed the topic after a pregnant pause in conversation.
but later, in the next awkward silence, he popped up and told me, as if there was no option but to do as he says, "you'll be a writer. but only when you're not afraid of shaming your parents."
my face blushed the brightest purple.
its not the muse, just the courage?
but later, in the next awkward silence, he popped up and told me, as if there was no option but to do as he says, "you'll be a writer. but only when you're not afraid of shaming your parents."
my face blushed the brightest purple.
its not the muse, just the courage?
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