So, pretty much I never run out of things to talk about. When I was little, the chatter happened in Spanish and with a higher pitch (except for when I would walk around making sounds like gurgle gurg glurg lurg belurg pretending like I could speak English). But basically it was all the same: chatter chatter chatter. I never ran out of topics, opinions, or WTFISTHAT or whyyyyyyyyy?
In middle school, my BBF and I would exchange letters--you know, the kind you fold up in weird puzzly shapes and scribble For your eyes only and LYLAS CIEVY & KAYDEE BFFE and if we'd had OMG that would've been on there too, and tossed across the room when your teacher's back was turned? Yeah, well, mine didn't fold up into puzzly shapes very well because they were usually at least five pages long. Okay, fine, closer to ten. Filled front and back. Whatever. But I had SO MANY THINGS TO SAY DAMNIT. My poor BFF was always like dang, girl and she tolerated all my stories and one time I pulled this major prank on her and wrote her this long letter about this old guy coming after me when I left the corner store eating my 75 cent strawberry hand-dipped ice cream cone with a bubble gum ball at the bottom, and then he jumped me--and so the letter went on and on, with super minute details and tension and gripping OMG WHY DIDN'T SHE CALL TO TELL ME THIS? and then the letter ended with me saying, "and then he pulled my leg. just like I'm pulling yours," and she was like, "YOU @#$% OMG! I HATE YOU THAT WAS AWESOME!"
And then as I got older I learned to talk less and listen more sometimes. I would fill pages and pages of journals and notebooks and scraps of papers writing stories and scenes and plays without ends sometimes not making any sense at all. And then as I got even older my stories got stronger and smarter and more clever but I still tried to do things like follow rules because damn nobody likes a run-on or fragments. Right?
And finally one day I realized that maybe I had something with this writing thing. When most every other dream died except the ones that truly mattered, there it was, this new dream--this thing I had been doing forever and ever, thinking it was always just because there was too much in my head. And the fact was that's exactly what it was--too much in my head, but the more I got it out and onto paper, the better I got at turning it into something that made sense and sounding like a real story, and the more I reached into my characters, the more I learned about myself. It didn't seem to matter how much I wrote, I NEVER RAN OUT. Always, there were more words and stories and people I'd never met before in my head who were all like dude, let me outta your head, and so I had to keep putting them on paper. The words the words, they always keep coming.
So yeah. I never run out of things to say.
But this week,