I find as I grew older, writing become achingly personal. I often find myself scribbling in my book, lost in a thought, attempting to get it right the first time. And those pieces of information was left store in some place never to be reread. Oftentimes I lost it completely.
Lately words are scare and passion for writing are as dries as the Sahara.I slack off, I know. For umpteen times, I keep telling myself, read something, write something but words are just words without any essence. I can walk in and walk out of a book store and no spark. Like a typical old married couple, no excitement, no zest.
Hence, I’m putting my foot down. I pledge to write daily, starting with a mundane stuffs all over this page again hoping it will somehow kick start these old engine of mine. And read a book a month (possible? I sure hope so)
(Why I keep thinking of the monkey villain (Mojo Jojo) in Power puff girls while writing this. Yes, I’m cheesy that way)