Resuscitating the Writer

When I write my autobiography several decades later, or maybe next week, I'll make sure to add a few pages on how to reclaim youth wasted by delusions and dreams. Right after the chapter on my rude awakening.
So Yes, I was immature. And Yes, I was being a coward. And YES, I'm lazy. But I'm willing to cut myself some slack, because look - I'm suffering for it now, okay?

Now let me paint you a portrait of the artist as an uninspired, sadly regular young woman -

Things were not going as expected. She had completely side-stepped the trial by fire, the stormy lunches with her parents, and suicidal tendencies. It was disappointing, because she was getting good at those, and had come prepared for them. Posterity would blame it on Murphy, and woe how utterly uninteresting the next chapter in her life promised to be. Its working title was 'The Time of No Shenanigans or The Advent of the Good Girl'. She was afraid even her word processor would breakdown from sheer boredom. But purgatory wasn't even a smidgen of mud on the horizon.


Alright, enough. Any more and I'll cry. So here's the quick and dirty - I've screwed up, and after watching me give stellar screw-up performances, my parents have decided to intervene. The Reformation has begun. And the beginning lies in trying to figure out what the hell I want in life (apart from a lot of money, and coffee). Something must also be said of the the Reclamation bit, because that's the bit that'll be hitting you in small, smelly, gooey bits. Unexpectedly. It has wings. I'm talking about reclaiming the writer-persona, and picking up wordcraft with a vengeance. Weapons of choice are my blog, and Tyrannosaurusy word doc that'll be my NaNoWriMo novel's nanny.Yep, I'm taking part in NaNo third year in a row, and this time it's to win, baby!

I will also be plotting secret shenanigans, and adopt a secret identity to give these nefarious plots life, so you can stop crying now.