When I was growing up, I wanted to be a writer. Every day, I dreamed of the millions of books I would publish and the fame that I would get because of it. Nearly every day, I would write short stories as if I was possessed. I even loved the writing times that my elementary school teachers would have us do, even when everybody else hated it.
When I was twelve, I submitted a poem to the Poetry Anthology of Young Americans. I won a spot in the book and I was elated. Even in high school I loved writing and wrote on a regular basis. But as time went on, I wrote less and less until I stopped writing at all. In college, I took a couple creative writing classes and that jumpstarted my writing enthusiasm for a short period of time, only for it to die again.
That’s the way it usually is with childhood dreams. You’re passionate about one thing and follow it until all of a sudden, it burns out. A friend of mine is trying to get me to write again, make me write every day, but it’s not working. No matter how hard I try, I can’t back into the enthusiasm for creative writing again. I’d rather focus my energies on other things, even if it means snuggling in bed and reading or watching a movie or playing The Sims (Yeah, I still play the Sims, don’t hate).
Writing doesn’t take the forefront for me anymore. If I’m going to write, I’m going to write a blog entry. I love blogging and that’s my writing passion. But to write fictional stories and hope to publish them again, I hope not. I can’t push myself in that direction anymore. Maybe I’ll write some short stories again soon, but I can’t say when that might be. Perhaps in the next life? Who knows.