Virtual Confetti

It seems the more time that passes, the harder it is to pick up the pen.  I haven’t written much lately.  Make that a year.  More?  Just as it was nearly impossible for me to look forward to running the mile in gym class, I find the same hesitation to dive into my next work.  I can’t tell you why, as I really do enjoy writing.  I’m convinced I suffered some kind of literary trauma some time ago.  The kind of trauma that has me repressing memories of being beaten by a quill pen or being doused with ink and set on fire.  Or even worse… having to write a thesis paper.  But as they say, practice makes perfect, so here I try once again.

Sometimes I’ll sit in a cafe and write in my journal.  Looking through my notes, I found where I again had to force myself to write.  The topic was on turtles.  I’ve never owned a turtle, and I’ve rarely seen one in person.  But it was the first topic to enter my mind at the time.  (Which in itself was odd, as I had some kind of latte and not the turtle soup.)  So I wrote a boring page about turtles and how I knew little about them.  I then changed things up a bit, writing about how I hated them.  I don’t really hate them, but reading about my lack of familiarity with them is rather dull, so I pretended I hated them.  Oh, those blasted shell-encased losers of the sea world.  Amphibians?  AmphiJERKS!  Yes, for one half hour, I hated turtles like I was a sea rabbit, and they were eating all the good seaweed.  Yes, turtles were responsible for stealing my ideas and writing the most superb screenplay that was ever written!  Indeed, an Oscar will be given to a turtle this year — an Oscar that should have been mine.

On second thought, maybe I did have the turtle soup.