Long

I promised weekly updates and here it is, three months after the fact. I've tried...oh, I've tried. You cannot grasp my longing for this page, for this empty window, this canvas on which I can paint any picture of myself or the world around me. Could paint, that is, had I the talent, the words, or the creativity. Instead, I spend my days avoiding this, as if coming to this page, unearthing my brush and paint, sitting down to make something out of nothing gives me the feeling of dread. The responsibility to work at this craft, the need for me to hone it daily in order to prepare for the day when I need to compose longer papers, longer stories...that responsibility is too much for me to bear. I don't like the tedious part of writing, the part where I actually have to take time out of my day of searching for Notre Dame stories, making fun of ESPN, texting, calling, cooking, and working out in order to get better at it. I think of how little my writing deserves even an unloyal reader. I think of my inability to create a full story in my head, a story past the first chapter and the final ending, and I put the paint away, close up the carton of brushes, and think of how one day, in the future, better writing will just come to me. But I just need to write more.

I have a beginning. I just need a middle and an end. Don't tell me I need to live mine before I can write about them