Every little girl falls in love through a fairy tale. And when I was little, I fell in love… with writing. It took awhile before I could admit it since English wasn’t my first language.

I mean it was really hard. There are just so many rules and exceptions. Drove me nuts.

It seems I’ve gotten the hang of it since I was five or so. I no longer cry at the thought of spelling and grammar. (I just whimper with teary eyes.)

Anyways. It was easy when I was younger… to write that is. I had so many ideas crammed into my little head without being able to put them on paper fast enough. Granted that those ideas weren’t the most originals, but I was just so eager and driven. I felt as if I had a vault of immeasurable gold in my mind and that I was the only one with the precious key.

Unfortunately I forgot to take Ms. Muse into consideration. So generous to the younger me, yet so cruel as I got older. She left a small air vent, which I assumed was to prevent me from drowning in my own ideas, but that same air vent began to crumble from the pressure of my ideas being locked away and not being used. Eventually the walls broke and out spilled my ideas to oblivion.

Yes, I am a bit emo about the situation. It probably isn’t much different from a five-year-old being finding a hole in their piggy bank.

The flood of creativity leaving me is depressing, but I’m trying earnestly to turn it into a challenge. I’ll have to make due with the few lingering thoughts that I have and see if they will bear fruit. (Please bear fruit… even a sour pale cherry.)

Not completely a loss in terms of hope.

I would love to ask someone to save me, but it might be just a little pathetic to ask for help without trying to help myself first, right?