So, if the lack of posts weren’t any indication, it’s probably worth mentioning that this has been a miserable choice in terms of any kind of self-improvement. I stopped writing bad poetry my freshman year of high school. I was pretty sure that if I started writing poetry at this point, it would be better. Not so. It turns out, nothing has improved except my ability to tell that what I’m writing is drivel. It makes me sad all day.
I suppose this shouldn’t be a huge surprise… I’ve always loved words. Writing and the existence of thoughts on paper… My mother ensured that my vocabulary was always above that of my peers. And yet, despite that, I’m an god-awful at word games. Scrabble, boggle, wheel of fortune… I should have an edge on these games, and yet, inexplicably, I blow. I blow hard. Writing poetry has been the same experience. Despite all of my literary training, despite all the big ideas and swirling thoughts constantly filling my skull… What comes out is about on par with a fourteen year old goth kid writing a hallmark greeting card. The grand conclusion to this not-so-grand experiment shall be up upon the morrow.