What do you do, when it's been so long that it's nothing more than a distant memory? Not even that, really. More like a fiction.
Once upon a time, I was a writer of sorts.
Now it's been months. So much has happened. Even more has not happened. And here I sit, in this chair. And here my words sit, inside my head. Struggling to make their way down my arms and out my fingers.
A recap of the last several months? I don't think so. Not yet, not all at once. Maybe tidbits every now and then. Maybe never.
I got my last check from the publisher today. That's twelve stories I've written but never read. A paltry sum I've received, but still more than a lot of writers of sorts manage. I think I was just in the right place, and the right frame of mind, at the right time.
My goal now, were I to be so bold as to state a goal, would be to write in this journal more often. Once per day should be doable, but once per week is probably more likely for now. I'm starting over, you see. Or trying to start over.
This was my outlet for a long time. Then, for even longer, it was my voice, as I screamed of my pain. Now, now I'm not sure what it's supposed to be. I just know that I miss it. I miss this, this sound of fingers tap-tap-tapping on my keyboard as my mind empties onto my screen.
Maybe that's all this will be now. A sedative for my mind and my heart. A calming for my soul.