Why, indeed?

Oh, well, I used to have the urge to write. Something in my core burned red-hot for it, but I seldom feel that way anymore. I like the community, though this go-round I haven’t connected with anyone. Just as well. I don’t write often enough to maintain that sort of thing. But when I did, boy, that was nice. I had amazing writers to write to and to read from. One in particular was a mentor kinda. He didn’t know it, but I learned so much from him.

Now it’s like yawning. I have a sudden urge to fill, write a little something about nothing, and then move along.

I should read more.

I was perusing FaceBook last weekend while getting a pedicure, and one of those novella ads (is it an ad?) rolled over my screen. I clicked on it, which is something I never do. I read 11 chapters of this crappy story because I couldn’t put it down. It was so bad, but reading it was like watching a bad movie that you can’t stop watching. Then at a climactic moment, I was informed that I had to pay to read the rest. I didn’t.

Anyway, that has nothing to do with this post other than to say that my love for writing and for literature has degraded into something far from passion. But I can’t put it down.