Today while my girlfriend and I were on our way back from the train station to our home, an idea crossed my mind. Writing is not for success, or riches or fame; but more along the lines of self-gratitude and fulfillment. If I were never to be a best-selling author or a renowned prolific author I wouldn’t fret or worry. As long as the stories were written and released to the world to entertain, thrill and frighten, then my job would be finished.
I’ve been writing stories for many years since back when I could barely read. Stories began as illustrations narrating tales of valiant fighters and bizarre alien attacks, into vast texts with constructive form and powerful techniques. I want to be known as a storyteller above all else; someone who saw the world through a creative lens and portrayed the stories of the world both grim and stellar; both horrifying and warming, and of course, captivating.
I guess this post is just a promise, that I will pursue writing and storytelling and will not let it pass me by. Instead, I will die as a storyteller, a writer, and a prolific writer at worst.
Tonight a new poem will go up before 12,
and tomorrow I will finally release the new story (i know, i know)