but now it's over.

It is in the errors that the most beautiful creation lies.
It lies in the misspellings – the grammatical errors, the choppy sentences. It’s the clichés, the semi original plotlines. In all of that lies the reason I still justify calling myself a writer: when I am upset, I find my peace in my own stories, I find the ability to be calm by reminding myself of what I created at twelve, thirteen, fourteen (fifteen?). There is a point when the mantra of I peaked at thirteen slides away with reality and I lose myself in the same things I always do. Love stories, rock stars, glamour. Insain isn’t it? Sick hearts, plays on words that work or don’t—wordststrungtogether towards the end, three page opuses of I need inspiration. No punctuation or quotations. It might not make sense but this is how I think and this is what makes sense to me, just me – not you. My dry humor and Gossip Girl/Chuck Palahniuk—my back to basics. Thirty six play lists of words and notes to write to – a new one for each inspiration. Notes, “Other People’s Stories,” disorganized just the way I like them. Titles that are indiscernible to the untrained eye but rarely surprise me when I open them. Click this folder, simply labeled Stories – and you have what makes me human. Except that you will never have them – they belong to me and only me, even if they mean something to you (well isn’t that just sick.) and will never lose them.

This is how much I miss writing.
Except it doesn’t even begin to cover it.