#gremlinpost

*Me, sitting on my bed, listening to my bird play, drinking water from my water bottle, tears welling in my eyes*

*types 6 words* 

Wait, what color is this character’s eye color? *opens tumblr to find the picrew* ooh new posts* *spend 45 minutes re-reading drabbles I’ve read literally 50 times*

Oh CRAP I was writing. 

*Pulls up the picrew.... and the eyes are black.* oh, ah okay. I guess I’ll decide now. I feel like every red head as blue eyes, tho. *remembers I was going to text my hairdresser to see if I can get an appointment to dye my hair red* *texts hairdresser* *gets notification from tumblr* *cries because a new friend is LIKING ALL OF MY NIK POSTS* 

Spends 30 minutes on tumblr

“Oh I should be writing.” 

Opens word doc. 

“Oh I wanted a synonym for that word.”

Honestly? I don’t really care about writing. 

Not as an art, not really. To be brutally honest, I never really have. 

I don’t really care about writing tips, I don’t really care if I change my tense, I don’t really care if the pov keeps changing. I don’t really care about repeated phrases or sentence structure. I don’t do a lot of research. I use a thesaurus, but that’s pretty much it. 

Sure, I’m aware of these things. I think about them. I edit and revise and clean up parts. I add and I delete paragraphs. 

But I’m not doing that for the sake of ~writing~. 

No, I’m doing those things because I want my work to be clear. I want people to understand me clearly. To make sure that they understand what I’m trying to say. 

‘Cause that’s the part I like. 

I like the stories. I want to be a storyteller. Come to me outside this computer screen and I will weave the same tale with my words, with my hands. If I could draw, I would draw the same. 

I love stories; I always have. I want to hear them, I want to read them, I want to share them. 

I guess that means I want to write them.