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Restlessly musing about how I need to exorcize all my energies through my writing, I checked out LJ's writing prompt, which was a question about whether we ever stole anything and how did we feel about it. That struck a rich vein of teenage memory, overwhelming me in what to write, as I recall Yokota and George, losing the job bagging groceries at the commissary and getting my ID limited after getting caught with stolen beer.
Prompts aren't my problem. I could spew out diarhetic verbiage practically without limit, but for the problem of effort and will. Just getting going can become more like a chore, and the air fizzles out of the balloon when I consider what the result is likely to be.
And there's always the Old Journal when I do feel a bit constipated for topics. The problem lies elsewhere. But where do you go to get a new life?
Prompts aren't my problem. I could spew out diarhetic verbiage practically without limit, but for the problem of effort and will. Just getting going can become more like a chore, and the air fizzles out of the balloon when I consider what the result is likely to be.
And there's always the Old Journal when I do feel a bit constipated for topics. The problem lies elsewhere. But where do you go to get a new life?
