I am so sick of writing crap. I mean, every novel that I have almost finished is boring and nothing new. I bring nothing important to the literary table.

 

Well, that is until now.

 

I have decided that it is time for me to walk down that road. No, not that one…the other one.

 

I am making up my mind and putting my life down in black and white. Sure, I will change things and make things how I would have wanted them. But the same basic plot line will be there.

 

It’s rough though. Walking down that road…it’s dark and I don’t know if I have enough distance yet.

 

 What is going to happen when my life gets torn apart by everyone? Can I really let everyone judge me like that?

 

But everything else I write is crap. Maybe this is the one thing I have to write. Maybe those other novels were to teach me that I could sustain a novel. Now I just need to write mine.

 

I will never make everyone happy. I have to go into this knowing that and really understanding that.

 

This is my life and I must write it. Once I get it all out, then I can go in and start adding and subtracting.

 

I always thought my life was rough because I was to do something more with it. What greater gift is there then comforting someone else through my own words.

 

But this is really hard. I am only on page two and my face hurts from crying. I keep listening to “Ave Maria” which isn’t helping the tear factor.

 

Just indulge me.

 

Why God? I was seventeen! I already gave one…why did I have to give twice and in such a small amount of time? It wasn’t even a decade that passed before you were calling the next in line.

 

Why?

 

In writing it, I keep going back to that one scene. She was sitting up and I had hope. She wasn’t really dying. It was a mistake. I misunderstood. But I didn’t.

You let her die. You let her die.

 

You took her from me.

 

You took her from my sister.

 

Why?

 

You let her die and you let me die, too.

 

Why?

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