Sleepless

I'm off my murder mystery kick. Me and murder mysteries are breaking up. Because as a reader I hate the dark. I can't relate to characters who swear because there are no unvulgar words that adequately describe their lives. Because some of these books are not mysteries, but voyeuristic peeks into sickness well beyond the boundaries our society sets for the protection of hope, faith, good will, and love. And as a writer I must remind myself that I am better than the kind of cheap shocks these books use to frighten and sicken an audience with hearts of stone. I suppose I simply cannot stand to swallow page after page of watching someone else's torture—someone for whom I have no strand of hope because I have never, in my real life, met someone so dead.

So I'm tired of being sad for things I don't need to be sad about. Like I have so many other times, I'm leaving this behind.

As a positive side effect, I'm more excited about writing myself. Recently as I've been reading and writing, I've gotten the feeling that I'm good enough to do this. I am fully aware that I could be wrong (feel free to leave your opinion in the comments [I'm not fishing for encouragement (really, I swear [what, a girl can't ask for an honest opinion?])]), and that doesn't bother me at all. I have fallen in love with a story of my own, and I'm starting to think I might enjoy writing it more than I enjoy reading so many things.

So while I'm sucked into this sudden confidence, I'm off to write something other than frivolous web-filler. But first, to the bathroom!