Bats's Journal

i miss you more than anything

Now, I am grown. I do not imagine like I used to. Everything I write never quite comes out right. I can never just do it for the sake of doing it. Every word must be perfect, every point in its place, or how can I justify it all? I wish I could blame this on something, some event in my life that I could cite and say, “This is why I can’t write anymore.” But there is no such thing. Nothing really happened. I just wanted to be good. So good, that people would rave about my book, it might even get a movie, and I’d insist on being hands on in the production, every line, every shot, every actor, completely perfect. I could write just one book and forever feel like I was a master, a poet, a genius. Until I realized I am none of those things. All characters are silent, their voices unfound. Every world barren, life being lived. Where did it all go? I’m trying so hard to get it back. That spark. What killed it? And why? Was any story I had really worth telling? I don’t want it to matter, though I can’t help but need it to. What ear will hear me when I beg for the words to come back to me? 

here: crumbs

the babies have names!! well, some of them. two of them.