Last night, on a whim of wondering, I took a few of my old notebooks to bed from last year, two of random, one for a writing class.
This is the first time that I have looked back at myself as a writer and was impressed. Some of you out there have told me over and over about how good of a writer I am, but I disagree--there are many out there who do this same thing, and I never really see how I have something better.
But I was impressed. I see how I've changed, but not necessarily for the better or worse. I look at the things from two years ago and realize that I used to write everything down. I'd get an idea for an opening line, a scene that crossed my mind for no reason, a character that I had to write a synopsis for, then later would go back and really describe my thoughts.
And now I can barely find time to write a blog, much less write those passing thoughts. Except that I don't have any less time than I once did. So, what happened?
The passion isn't lost. That's for sure. As soon as I read a book or have that extra time, I start thinking as if I'm writing. I start describing things in my head, finding new ways to tell the way a curtain is swaying, or the way I clutter my desk.
I just stopped writing it down, which is a terrible thing for me as a writer to do. I somehow decided that the importance to get those thoughts out for someone else to read wasn't.
And I started reading old material left on my computer, too.
It all really started getting me excited for the next semester--more writing classes. And, hopefully, that means more posting on my part.
Random Facts: The name hippopotamus comes from the Greek words "hippos," meaning horse, and "potamus," meaning river.