There is no story deep within my sole clawing to get out. Where have the stories gone? I have decided not to worry about my lack of muze. I cannot even spell the word muze. I cannot even find the word muze on the net to spell it correctly. No wander it has left.
I do love it when something inside come boiling to the surface and aches me until it is out. I hate it too. Neither has happened in a long time. That's fine. I'm not a writer. I'm not one of those people who finds themselves (plural used deliberately due to the lack of a nuder pronoun in English) giving birth to vast prose of high quality. I have not now nor will I find this in my life. I just do not believe it so.That is fine. I am what I am.
There are miles of potential writers on the internet. There are, believe it or not, a couple of good ones. I listen to a couple fiction podcasts that do not suck. I have not found any fiction blogs that do not, ... yet. If I find them, I'll put blog them here. Nonfiction is well represented in the blogsphere.
Apologies, but I intend to put very bad fiction of my own creation here. I will label it so it may be avoided. It will come in snippets and incomplete conversations or anecdotes. Then again, I've had no complaints yet.