The Vig

My favorite redhead has decided there are other things to do.

I once heard that writers write because they can’t help themselves. For a time that was me. I wrote, I wrote some more and then, I wrote a book. I joined this club and that blog ring and this link sharing program. I loved it all. But was I writing? I came here to tell the story of an abused kid who turned out ok. I came here to tell a story about a girl who once lived in a car, turned woman, turned something. But what happens after you become a woman or “something”? After all that “becoming” what else is there? I once wrote because I couldn’t help myself. Now I look at the computer and feel consuming guilt.

I hear you, sister.  Sometimes I just look at this and wonder what the point is.