Written.

It has been far too long since my last post, but as I have been busy with a new job working in hell, and it takes me long into the night only to collapse onto my bed and sleep till noon the next day, waking only to spend an hour or two before going back into the fiery furnace, I have had little energy for a blog. During this brief and much too short span of my day, I eat, shower, and mill around on my computer.
And I read.

Have I been given a satchel of books to be read by summer's end by my girlfriend? Well, yes. Does this mean I would not be reading otherwise? Of course not. It's merely a matter of what I am reading that has been determined by her curiosity of how I would enjoy her most favorite of literature.

I have long been one of the most avid readers known to myself. Meeting a couple similar book-goers in college was a nice change of pace. Sometimes I question my career choice of delving into the medical field and wish that I would have instead become an author, or an editor, or some such thing. I reason with myself that once it had become a job, however, any fun I had at one time gained through it would be lost. I have too few escapes to risk losing them.

As hinted by the comment of pipe-dreaming as an author, I also write.

I have a series (since everyone knows that a series is superior to a single novel when it comes to sci-fi/fantasy, my genre of choice) that I have somewhat laid out, and will in theory one day complete. I've restarted it more times than I care to count as my ideas shift ever so slightly from one thing to the next, and as a result it has not seen much distance. But nevertheless it is a work in progress.

My junior year of highschool I took a short story and poetry class. Surprisingly, the poetry section did much more for me than the short story aspect. I don't believe in short stories. If it's worth telling, make it longer. Poetry can be beautiful. Now I don't consider myself a poet, far from it. But what I have picked up is a habit of writing songs. Are they worthy of blaring over the radio to thousands of listeners nationwide? Not likely, but who am I to judge my own work? I'm hardly a professional at such things. Besides, I don't write them for aspirations of being the next Lisa Mikovsky and writing songs for the big names of the industry (That's where her career started, for those who don't know, now she sings her own music, and I quite like it). Rather, much like reading or playing video games or watching re-runs of Top Gear on the BBC America, I write because I enjoy it. It has helped me through what I consider to be one of my blackest of nights.

Does everything I write dive into darkness and despair as that piece did? Of course not. I generally enjoy the occasional mushy-stupid song about a little-defined woman. I enjoy cliches. More often though, my words are less happy. With the creative variation of a chipmunk, most of them focus instead on a similarly-defined woman that has left the singer behind to drown in his sorrow. See? More cliches. The walls are covered with them, and I couldn't think of a better way to decorate.

Maybe someday I will post an exercept from my story onto this blog, or some newly inspired song. Until that day, however, I shall have to make due by keeping you all gripped by my intriguing and riveting narratives. Who knows what the future may hold.