I rarely finish what I start.

Sad, right? The number of stories I’ve started to write but never actually finished is equivalent to the number of textbooks I’ve bought but never actually read for class. Actually I take that back, I probably haven’t read more textbooks.

Some of them I quit because I realized, wow, this is terrible. Just terrible. I’m embarrassed to show some of my writing to people because it is genuinely awful.

I save everything I’ve ever written on my computer, and somewhere in my room at home I have a notebook full of writing from middle school and early high school. My face turns red every time I see it, and if I’m with anyone, I toss it under my bed and pretend like it doesn’t exist.

Maybe I’ll post one of those chapters one day so we can both laugh together…

But the fun thing about having all of those extra scraps of writing lying around is that I can steal from myself when I’m having a writer’s brain fart. And stealing from yourself isn’t technically stealing, right? I’m crossing my fingers that it’s not, because I do it all the time.

Why don’t I try to clean up and finish some of those stories, you ask? Because it’s not salvageable. Sad, I know. The time and effort it would take to fix one of those bad boys up until it’s presentable wouldn’t be worth it. It would be like dressing a dog up like a human and trying to convince everyone that it’s your little brother/sister. It just doesn’t work, and people would think you’re weird.

Plus with the time it would take for a rewrite, I’d rather just start over.

The more I think about it, the more I want to show you how bad it is, just so you believe me. Stay tuned for that. It’ll probably be tomorrow when I don’t want to write another post.

 

The toast part is weird, but this is our weekend party song with my two best ladies :)

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