I took the boys to see Twilight today. I promise no spoilers here, but I do think they rushed the ending way too much after the easy pace of the rest of the movie. I’ve started reading the book, so I can’t be a judge there, but my oldest son has read the book (“Even though it’s a love story.”) and says that it’s better. Of course, he always thinks the book is better.
You know, it’s times like this when I wish I was writing. I keep seeing things that say to “remember your childhood dream.” Well, mine was writing. I was always working on my novels. I still feel like I have stories stuck inside me. I keep wondering how things would’ve worked out if I hadn’t listened to the negative voices in my head that told me my stories were childish and stupid. It seems that a lot of what’s popular today is similar to what I was writing then. To be honest, it’s very hard when I feel like my writing was taken away from me because, well, I guess I feel that I was wasting it, I wasn’t appreciating it enough, I wasn’t pushing it hard enough. Sometimes I wonder if the art will be taken away from me too. I worry that if I get too attached to painting that the desire to do it will be taken away. Yet, even with the painting I feel that it doesn’t have the depth that I want. I can’t convey the same things that I can when I’m writing. And I don’t seem to have the same obsessiveness with painting that I did with writing. Not that I don’t feel a passion for it; it’s just not the same.
Oh, if only I had an answer to this dilemma. If only I had the desire to write, then I’d happily plug away at both. And why have I not found the person that understands what I’m going through right now, that mentor, that teacher to guide the way. I’m ready to be out of this labrynth and continue down the path.
Okay, thanks for listening today. Maybe soon I’ll have an answer.