Maybe I've been cheating, in some small way? I've been going to these message boards, these...writing message boards from time to time. And I read these really detailed and enthusiastic tips and prompts. Things people learned in master's programs, workshops, self-help books, dancewear catalogues, etc.

I can't relate to this at all! I took similar classes! I scribbled away after reading prompts! I feel like an untethered balloon bob, bob, bobbing away from that whole world! I feel that way about everything, though, and yet I still continue to write. My punctuation and grammar is for birdies on this blog; it's usually quite late by the time I get on here to empty the little vials of descriptive bits I've bottled up all day. But dammit. I've always just DONE it and be damned to the bulking up of characters, subplots, cheez whiz and dramedy's that are PROVEN EFFECTIVE TO PULL THE READER IN!

I've just.done.it.

This doesn't make me a good writer. Just effortless. And that's not patting myself on the back, either. I have no idea whether it's any good or not (art is subjective, right?). It's effortless because I've rarely had trouble composing SOMETHING, self-gratifying and strange as it must seem.

I get teeny bits of feedback from my husband, I value his opinion since he's a gifted artist (see stuff on the upper right)...and the feedback I've gotten from him has been mixed.

I'm depressing myself.

I wish I could just clack clack funny tidbits like big mama or snarky every day commentary like bossy or dooce. Or impress the masses with the fluff like pioneer woman.

No, I don't wish these things. I wish to have that GIANT THUMB press down on my head. I wish I had the ferocity of Atwood. I felt a tiny thumb-press today, when I wrote my previous post.

This train just needs more fire.