When I Think About You, I Impress Myself...

The only line I know from that song. More than enough, I'd say.

Anywho.

For those foolish people who don't know, I'm a writer. *shockawe* Yup. Only I've never finished anything. On my old laptop, I started some thirty-odd documents with ideas. Granted, some were the actual documents of writing, but others were just seeds that needed to be planted just right. In the great Technological Revolution, transferance of files became impossible. (When I say old laptop, I mean...old. Like Windows 3.1 compatible motherboard.) So now I must retype them all here and save them on a flash drive for safekeeping. In so doing, I'm revisiting bits of my mind that I'd forgotten about and allowed to grow stagnant...and at every turn, I find an incomplete convo I'd worked on. This kills me. I know all these conversations, I know how they'll end up...and yet, when I read them, I find myself wanting to read more. My reaction to realising that one didn't continue earlier led to my mother asking what the hell was wrong with me. (Perfectly normal way of saying "What's the matter", don't worry.) And in that way, I impress myself. It probably has much to do with my miserable memory and not so much with my incredible writing skills *cough*lies*cough* but still. Wow. I actually want to read my stuff.

And now that I sound incredibly pompous and arrogant and full of myself, I'll end this.