I’ll always remember, it was late afternoon
It lasted forever, but ended too soon
You were all by yourself, staring up at a dark grey sky
And I was changed
In places no one will find all your feelings so deep inside
Was there that I realized that forever was in your eyes
The moment I saw you cry
“Cry” by Mandy Moore
I’ve been in a Mandy Moore mood today, listening to her old albums and there’s something about Mandy Moore that brings me back to writing.
Maybe it was because she “played” one of my favorite female characters that I’ve ever written, Harley, or maybe it’s because her music inspired me to write a lot back in the day. I even wrote a songfic called “Cry.”
I watch a few of my friends who still write talk about their chapters and readers and there’s something that pings inside of me that makes me miss it. I mean, writing wise, I only do it on here and on the Backstreet Boys’ official site. I don’t even write at work for a living anymore. It’s like beside the site and fan club, writing for me has died.
And I really hate it.
Sometimes when I’m at work, on the desk alone and the newsroom is buzzing on the other side, I’ll have my earbuds in, listening to music on my phone and I’ll really, really get in the mood to write. Of course, I can’t at the moment because I’m in the middle of working on a deadline, but by the time I finish work and come home, that writing feeling is gone.
I’ve often wondered about reworking my stories and putting them out on Amazon like I did once before, but I’m not sure. I kind of think if I do anything like that again, it will be an original story.
I just wish I could get past this fictional funk I’ve been in.
There’s nothing more that I want than to open up a Google Docs file or a Word file and just go to writing some amazing love story or comedy. Something that I can post online and get feedback from those that have always read my stories. And I just can’t.
Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I should have cherished the writing days when I had them because I really never thought they would go away.
Or maybe I’m just written myself out? If that’s the case, then how does Danielle Steel write 194049850934 books a year?
Maybe I wasn’t as great at writing after all like some said. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
