Silent.

[icebluenothing]

I fall out of the habit of doing this much too easily. There are things I keep meaning to write, here, but I just never seem to get around to it. Very frustrating.

Well, I never expected any different. Actually, the amount of writing I've done here has exceeding my wildest imaginings. So why am I still so dissatisfied? I don't know.

It's been humbling, hanging around with my new friend autumngray, and learning that she not only writes screenfuls of text in her LiveJournal, but compulsively fills pages and pages of text in real journals, as well.

That's never worked for me. I've never been the type to manage to keep a journal. I love journals and blank books, I'm drawn to them, I pick them up and admire them, I even own a couple. They're still blank.

I write. I write fiction, stories for people to enjoy. Writing just for myself has always seemed -- pointless to me, I guess. A waste of my time. Here, at least, I know I have an audience, of sorts. And that keeps me writing.

But not enough, dammit.

.... In other news, I've been working for the past few days on a totally new redesign of the Merchants of Deva website. It's gonna knock your socks off.