A Waste of Time.

If you asked me, ‘Why are you a writer?’ I would probably say something like, “I am not buitl for manual labour." The truth is I never had friends as a child so I madeup friends and adventures, storys. I had imaginary friends up until I was sixteen (now I have “characters"). Every day I think to my self I should have made friends, learned to play piano, talked to the girl with the black hightop sneakers, but I never did, I knew it would get in the way of my wrighting, the one thing I have dedicated my entire life to. The question is, ‘Why are you a writer?’ The answer: I want to prove to myself that I have not wasted my entire life, that every choice I ever made was not the wrong one. You may ask “How will you know when you have reached that point?"  Again that is easy, when something I write is so beautiful and profound that it makes someone cry, until that happens every day of my entire life will be a waste, I am trying to prove to my self that just isn't so. Question number three: “Do they have to cry?" Answer number three: Yes. If someone told me my story was wonderful, profound, and everything I wanted, I would never believe them. I have crushing self doubt so I will never beleave anything I write is any good, eavin this, it's true, it's me, I will never think of it as being worth reading. Unless someone crys I will never believe they actull LOVE it, because words mean nothing to me, ironic I know.