Why I Write.
There are quite a few things that I "should" be writing right now, but none of them are what I feel like writing.
This is one of the things that I do not like about being a writer. I have an article to write for RealTeenFaith, and I have to rewrite my last one.
I should be working on an article for Viewshound, and I should be working on my novel. But those are all what I should be doing, not what I want to be doing.
The reason I write is not for the recognition, or the money. It has never been about the money. Rather, I am writing so that I can be used by God to change lives. This is why I have refused to self-publish my work.
I feel that God, in his own time, will bring about a publisher who will consider my book(s) and provide a way to reach my audience.
There are a million thoughts I want to convey to my readers, but none of them will cooperate with my fingers and allow themselves to be written.
Maybe its because all during November, I kept pushing myself, and pushing myself, and pushing myself until I had eaked out every possible word from my brain and left myself with no creative juices left whatsoever. I feel as though I need a recharge. I wish there was a chair I could sit in and get my inspiration refilled, like a writing muse massage chair, or something. But there isn't.
But isnt that what blogs are for?
This is one of the things that I do not like about being a writer. I have an article to write for RealTeenFaith, and I have to rewrite my last one.
I should be working on an article for Viewshound, and I should be working on my novel. But those are all what I should be doing, not what I want to be doing.
The reason I write is not for the recognition, or the money. It has never been about the money. Rather, I am writing so that I can be used by God to change lives. This is why I have refused to self-publish my work.
I feel that God, in his own time, will bring about a publisher who will consider my book(s) and provide a way to reach my audience.
There are a million thoughts I want to convey to my readers, but none of them will cooperate with my fingers and allow themselves to be written.
Maybe its because all during November, I kept pushing myself, and pushing myself, and pushing myself until I had eaked out every possible word from my brain and left myself with no creative juices left whatsoever. I feel as though I need a recharge. I wish there was a chair I could sit in and get my inspiration refilled, like a writing muse massage chair, or something. But there isn't.
But isnt that what blogs are for?
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