Fiction and Reality

This might be the first entry where I actually titled the blog before I even wrote a sentence. I knew what I wanted to talk about today before I even had the chance to sit down a write it.

My thoughts have wandered onto passions; things I used to do before I got depressed. Before he broke my heart more times than I could count. The things I loved about myself. Was I perfect? Good God no, and I am more than ok with that. There were things I used to be, though, and I think I want to bring them back while I sit in the shadows.

Writing was a favored pastime of mine. I could sit for hours just writing and editing. Grammar was my equivalent of crack. All I wanted was more so I could get the kind of high that I can only get by writing something.

Sometimes, I was extremely self-conscious that I sucked at writing. Mostly, I didn’t give a fuck and I wrote it anyway. Since I spent a good amount of time talking about how I want to stop giving a fuck and do the things I want, anyway, I thought that talking about this might be a good way to put my money where my mouth is. Pardon the cliche, although I think sometimes, a well-placed cliche is a good thing for writing more than it is an excellent way to show your inability to be creative.

Eventually, I am going to add a second site to the Kelsey universe, and it is going to be entirely dedicated to my fiction works. I won’t be doing it daily, like this bad boy, but maybe once in a while, I will put up a free-write short story or a longer, well-researched story that might border on a novella, making each chapter its own story to keep the suckers who may want to see my writing on their toes.

I think the reason I always loved writing is because it allows an intimacy with your own emotions. You can get so deeply personal and vulnerable with it, because nobody really has to know it’s you. They don’t have to ask questions about your past, and you still get to have that cathartic feeling that results from getting those feelings outside of you before they tear you into such small fragments that you cannot figure out how you are supposed to put yourself back together.

While I certainly don’t think of myself as some sort of amazingly gifted writer, I know I don’t completely suck. Therefore, what’s the harm in doing it, anyway? Sure, people can go ahead and tell a stranger how much she sucks at writing or whatever foul insults they can conjure in their heads. And I have the ability to say, “Good for you, but I’m doing it anyway.” Sassy Kelsey does what she wants, damnit!

So here’s to bringing fiction to reality. I’m raising my bottle of water since it is probably best I keep my boozy business to a minimum. Not for physical health reasons so much as mental ones. Depressants are bad for the sad soul trying to recover.

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