untitled

and i need to write...

it's funny. i live at home (and by home, i mean the home where your mom and dad live too, and it's the place where you grew up and the place you try to get away from all your life, but inevitably you come back to at some point... it's just a matter of how long you stay) in a place that isn't busy, it's quiet and peaceful and it's the type of place where others vacation and i have a few jobs that require very little of my time and peers say "oh man! living at home! come move to _______ [insert NY or LA]!" but i say it's good because i've been so busy for so long and now i can just be home and just write and get 'it' all down, and start working on these projects, these IDEAS, and sadly that's all they are, just ideas... still.

i don't anticipate that i'll create my 'masterpiece' anytime soon. i'd love to, but it's just not ready to spit itself out yet. it's not on the tip of my tongue, but it's in there, i swear, it's just floating around picking apart pieces of stories of my life, and your life, and the lives on the TV, and putting them all together into this one (or two or three) bigger story/ies. maybe soon it will make its way down to my tongue and you'll hear me talking about it and i'll be excited because it's in its last trimester, ready for the printed page and then you can read it and tell me how bad it is and i can rewrite it and you can say it's better, and i can rewrite it and you can tell me it's good because really you can't read it again, but you'll trust that i made the changes you suggested and because of that it's good now...

but until then, this is a start. this is me calling myself out. i don't know who will read this. i doubt very many people at all. but it will be here for anyone to read and i will know it's here, and i will know that you can read it, and i'll feel your pressure, the nagging "so have you started it yet?" pressure... and i will.