I think I would sometimes like to blame my lack of writing on a big boisterous city that casts a shadow over my creative writing skills. I am convinced that it is the fresh country air that gives breath to beautiful writing. But there is always excuses of one kind or another to ignore the pen and paper.
And then again, maybe I never had that skill of writing and only dreamed I did. Or maybe I did, but it is all over and gone to the wind. Or maybe still it is yet there and you have yet to see what I can produce.
I still have a tiny bit of a dream that I will some day write a book and then again I really don't know that I want to.
Its kind of the same as I feel about farming. I have always had this romanticized view of authors and farmers and thought to myself that someday I should be one. Well, I will probably never be a farmer; I gave up that dream long ago.
But there still flickers a flame of hope that I might one day be an author.
But alas, an author never sprouts by just sitting and reading books and never writing a thing herself. That's not to say I am ready to start writing a book, but maybe its time I start writing again on this little blog of mine.
Who knows, but maybe I will write that book by 97 when I am old and gray and can't think of anything else to do with my life.