Old Dull Brown Rubber Band

Lost in stories.
Their stories.
My stories.
Stories to be told and interpreted.
Created.
Imagined.
Lived out.

Recently I announced a quiet proclamation, "I want to be a writer!"
Except I've really only said it with an exclamation mark when I'm alone under my bed sheets.


My writing keeps falling back on these self reflective little journal rants.
Trapped by inexperience, my writing lacks dimension like fast food lacks nutrition.
No climaxes or character development, not much editing or structure.
Somehow I'm convinced that when I die prematurely (as all great people do), my random journal rants will be edited into a book that 9th graders will read for the next 7 millennium.

"What's that, you don't think my writing is life changing?  Must be over your head,"  I rationalize to myself.

Really I'm just lost in it all.  Completely baffled by how well some can tell stories.  The way they juxtapose the words like the colors of the worlds most beautifully weaved basket.  Brilliantly alive.  Like true artists; making you laugh, while making your think, and wonder, and be inspired.  All in the same line.

I'm convinced writing is painting with words.  Of course painting is just dancing made tangible.  So they're all mystically more advanced than my denial drowned journal entries; to say the least.

Great writers make words dance.  I wear words like an old uninspired dull brown rubber band around my wrist, just getting brought along for the ride.

I guess I'm just having to live my story.  I want something, you know?  And I'm glad I NEED to work for it, that I HAVE to work for it.  Like any and all good things, except God's grace.  That's a whole other type of work (or lack of).

That's a whole other story... Or journal entry.