An open letter to whoever lives upstairs [or whoever cares to listen]::

i'm trying.

i know that i am.

but obviously not hard enough.

i'm open to criticism. really, i am.
lay it on me.

because apparently i'm not doing something right.
and i have no idea what i'm doing wrong.

lend a hand?
a finger to point me in the right direction?
please?

because i'm tired of feeling sorry for myself
and questioning my abilities.

i'm tired of staying stuck in the same place.
i'm tired of being patient.

Are You Writing...?

There is a constant need to write.

To create.

About the day. About the thoughts in my head. Stories about people.

It's the people that get me. That stress me.
Those people can do whatever you want them to. They can represent whatever message you want to put across to the reader and so forth.

We're always told: "You don't write the story--the people do."
But the characters can always do a number of things. Anything they want.

Who am I to tell[write] them what to do? Or how to do it?

There is a pressure behind that. Because all I can think about are the countless possiblities. And I find myself stuck. I've always had trouble with the beginning. But it's always the end that gets me. Because nothing ever ends.

Stories are, in essence, about life-the life or instant of a person. And life doesn't have a nice, set-up ending.

unless, of course, the person dies.

And we're always told and always warned not to kill a character at the end of a story as a means of copping out an end.

Is that death the end? And who would I be to give it anyway?

So it goes on...