there was a time when the words came a lot more easily. they flowed from my brain and out of my fingers. daytime, nighttime. the middle of the night. 4am. fueled by a nauseating mix of passion and being 20 and diet soda and candy. a lot of candy. the editor was quieter, the time more invisible. i had all the time in the world to share secrets, feelings i didn’t know how to articulate, thoughts i was sure would change the world. i was not actually as creative as i hoped. i was a hack, exploring the limits of my willingness to stay up all night for no real reward. i ignored structure and called it “free writing”. i ignored grammar and common sense and punctuation and the concept of writing to the reader.

if i were to go back to the start, to do it over, to revise the plan, i would kick myself out of the chair and into a creative writing class. i would put myself in the midst of better writers and let my ego take the beating. i would stop with the writing as means to communicate feelings and instead learn how to speak, a talent that eludes me still.

that option is closed, though. and looking back only brings the shame of having wasted so much time on something i swear that i love to do. the only option is to go forward. to ask if i really do love to write. to realize that i ask too many rhetorical questions and don’t put enough of myself out there and rely on lots and lots of commas. to take a class that tears apart any writing i do. to study plot and structure and new words and grammar and use uppercase letters. to learn all over again. to go back to the start.