on a lack of writing...

Somewhere along the line, I stopped writing. I love writing. I always have loved writing. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and hopes I wrote in college. I wrote stories and blogs, and I wanted a doctorate in history so I could write for a living. What happened? I still carry a journal around with me where ever it is my life takes me. I'm not sure the last time I wrote in it. Maybe 6 months ago. Maybe longer. I just finished reading my 102nd book last night. In my brain, I want to write. I think I've forgotten how. I can't seem to make my ideas turn into anything and the words no longer flow onto the page (or iPad screen, as the case may be). Next year, I want to write a book. I have ideas. Lots of ideas. The problem is the execution. That's why I'm starting now. Working on blog posts should get the creative juices flowing. That's the idea anyway. Blog posts lead to stories. And stories, hopefully, lead to something in the 80k range. That's my idea. I'm going to try my best to make it work. I've always wanted to be a writer. I can still be one. I am one. Just a rusty one. Besides, if I don't write stories, my lady is going to be disappointed. We can't have that.