Sad Labels:
introspect
,
retrospect
When I was a little girl I'd refer to myself as a writer. Because of this my older brother once challenged me to write a story.
So it was on.
I started with a castle. Quickly added in the requisite princess. Then I stopped.
I didn't want to write about those things. But with fairy tales being my only life experience to draw on, I was stymied for plot. For characters. For the substance I inherently wanted.
It's a true story.
And to this day I still struggle to reconcile the limits of what I've experienced in life with the vastness that writing demands of its disciples.
I hear the doorbell chime. In asthmatic gasps. And hurry my way down the stairs. But by the time I get there.
It's gone.