kep
My blogs
| Introduction | like every other girl who ever dreamed of becoming an author but graduated from college pursuing more practical career goals, I keep a notebook around most of the time, in case my one true story ever falls out of the blue clear sky. in the meantime, the notebook gets filled with minutiae and grocery lists, the occasional musing or rehashing of my uniquely dysfunctional family. online, I find myself blathering about benign misadventures in far-off places and mumbling my discontent with the world. somewhere in my mind, I scold my home and my roots for offering such meager material: surely there should be some great tale to be mined from the missouri river mud, but so far it seems that mark twain told every damn one. instead, I read, sometimes like I'm drowning - a book in a day, never rushing my pace but simply ignoring everything else for the sake of the story. I feel alive, sparked and yet isolated by this intimate consumption of others' thoughts. I want to write, but others' works leave me mute in my appreciation and humbled in my abilities. the reading list forever grows while the notebook is overrun with doodles: the truest reader makes a lousy writer. |
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