Ok, so I am going to rant tonight. Usually my blog posts are poems or excerpts from stories, or random creative weirdness. But tonight I’m going to rant.

  It’s not creative writing, but it is about creative writing, so I’m gonna count it.

 

Sometimes I wonder if this class is going to be more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, the whole writing two-hundred fifty words every day has been a daunting task, and very discouraging at times. I quite frankly, don’t like this blogging thing. I like to write stuff, finish it and then let people read it, not write a little of this and a little of that, and oh yeah strangers and friends get to read it all.

  It almost seems like Facebook. You know, that pressure to sound funny, look talented and seem popular that we feel online? I don’t know about you, but I feel it. And I don’t like it. Most of what I say during the day is just filler--- something to block the silence. But my writing is something different.

 

It’s a part of me.

  I can’t write something without investing myself into it. My writing is my soul, my spirit, my hopes, dreams, fears and beliefs all smushed into a few words or many, depending on the day. My writing is the deepest reflection of who I am, and who I hope to be.

  I hate writing something that I’m not proud of. Any work that is silly or dumb or unnecessary, seems pointless to me.

  Poetry. Ugh. It is my dread, and I’m glad this segment of creative writing is almost over. However I’m a little less opposed to poetry than I was before. It has its uses, and it can even be fun. As a general rule, I can write about one decent/good poem a year, which is why this last month has just about killed me.

    But last night a poem just seemed to spill out of me in a flood. It started as a feeling, then a response, then finally a song. Song of a dreamer, why do you still dream? IT has music to go with it, but I don’t know how to write it down, and the tune is now lost, somewhere in my subconscious mind, and somewhere in my heart.

  Last night I had the first “writing high” that I’ve had in several months. You know? When that perfect combination of words just leaps out of you from somewhere deep within, and simply must jump onto a page, you begin to feel the elation of writing.

   What I wrote last night, around midnight, may turn into an idea that becomes a national bestseller someday. It could change lives, it could move thousands of people to tears and soul-searching.

 

 More likely, nobody else in this world will ever read it.

But that doesn’t matter to me. Because it’s already changed one life.

Mine.

   And now I’m starting to believe again, that this class could be worth way more than just an English credit.