No writey no cry

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Well how nice to not be wrapped up in a novel.
I actually found myself in danger of becoming bored this afternoon. First time in I don’t know how long but it made a nice change. I know I’ll try to start up some bollocks and convince myself.. “this one, this is the one that will” what, exactly?
Make me rich?
Gain me the respect I somehow think I deserve?
Prove my worth to the world?
Yea right! I constantly question what it is I’m trying to achieve and lately? I have absolutely no fucking idea. I know that whatever it was I was hoping to gain by writing has not come about.
Plenty of frustration, plenty of disappointment, plenty of anger at so-called friends and family who couldn’t be bothered to take an interest.
I wonder if there’s some odd attention-seeking weirdness behind it all. Why I can’t just be content to continue without the approval of others whether they’re family, friends, acquaintances whatever. What is that about? Is it some sort of poor-me bollocks carried over from my pathetic childhood?
I think I’m done.
Whatever it was I think it’s waning. The last few have been really hard work, the words don’t flow although the finished result is great but that’s exactly it. I have nothing to prove, I’ve done it. Some of my stuff is awesome. If people don’t recognise that, it’s irrelevant. I’ve put the work in, I’ve proved I can do it, proved to myself I can write. Music, photography and literature but I’m no fucking salesman, everything always gets ruined by the fucking business of sell sell sell, money money money. Since when did anything decent come out of people chasing poxy money?
If that’s the motivation, forget it.
I set out to write that story for Scarlett, done.
Wrote stories about all the grandchildren except Sophia but I’ll write hers one day. All the rest of the shit has been astonishing, extras I could never have predicted and in years to come hopefully I’ll forget it was me who wrote them and simply enjoy them as if they’re… just stories, just simple stories.
Isn’t that enough?

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