That first post. I hate the first post.
You’ve got to get started somewhere, right? I’ve largely decided to invest in a WordPress based on the premise that it can potentially act as a kindling to the fire that is my dream, my life. At this particular junction, I’m not certain that anyone is even aware this WordPress exists. Should that make it easier for me to write — knowing that few, if any at all, will ever read it? Or will it make it more difficult knowing that I’ve no audience in which to entertain. I’ll get back to you on that.
I attribute my more intellectual facets in my life to genetics; my mother is 4’11” and my father only half a foot taller. Being diminutive through my former years made sports much more difficult to accept and instead I ingrained myself rather readily into literature. Regardless of your stature, falling face first into Middle Earth or imagining yourself under the sorting hat is as easy as turning the page.
I never knew my father. Haven’t even seen a picture of him (and I don’t want to, either). Because of this, I’ve been forced to learn from writers I’ve never met, from characters that aren’t real. This too, is another reason I have learned to always carry a good book with me. There are so many things that the faded pages of a long gone author can teach you, even in passing. I hope I’ve been a good student.
So, instead of the reader, I wish to be the writer. I write as often as I cry I think, which is not as often as I should. I know, I should write. I should write often. I should write and I should edit and when someone asks why I write and edit so much I would wish to tell them: “Because they are the only things of mine that will be here when I’m gone.”