should have never stopped. should have been more appreciative. turns out you don't own your talent. it's more of a renter. you're lucky if you get a two-year lease. i was fortunate to tap into it for as long as i did. like a surfer riding a really good wave. now i'm desperately searching for the next big tide. no wind in sight.
used to be a pretty good writer. had a popular blog with thousands of readers. beautiful short stories about love that came with little or no effort. then, just like that they stopped showing up. i'd sit in front of the computer and stare at an empty screen. for a long time i searched for that elusive magic. nothing but utter darkness. until one day i stopped trying. writers call it a block. it felt more like an abandonment. poof. maybe my muse got bored, moved on to someone hotter, more interesting. well, i'm determined to woo him back (what? i'm gay. my muse has a penis). i've been meditating (if you knew me you'd realize how huge that is, all that light within bullshit makes me want to hurl). but alas, i've reached the point of desperation. no pride, no shame. like a man trying to win back an ex-boyfriend, groveling is my starting point. a friend told me, "just write. don't think. don't look back. let your thoughts hit the page." and so that's what i'm doing. typing away without a care in the world. and so to you, my apologies. you get to read my raw, unedited unpolished thoughts. no fixing, no cleaning up, no trying to be clever. I'm taking off my literary makeup. i warn you, it ain't pretty, but it is real. nice to meet you. i'm ethan by the way. who the fuck are you?