I keep thinking, wondering when will I finally be content with what and how I write. It seems as though nothing is ever enough no matter how much I try.
I guess this is my angsty-writer side speaking, but I really feel like here is so much more I can do and yet I can't figure it out. I know how perfeccionist and annoying I can be, which does not help me in any way.
I have wanted to rite a story that took place in France, and another in Italy, but I have never been in any of these countries, never observed the peculiarities and characteristcs of french and italians, never saw the beautiful century-old houses, the frescos, the museums, never wrote a story by the windowsill watching the moonlight from a different perspective, from somewhere else.
So then, how can I possibly describe the joy, the sadness, the anguish and all of the feelings that you can feel if I don't have any idea what those places make people feel?
Writing is amazing, but sometimes it is also extremely confusing and deeply complicated. I keep waiting, hoping that someday I will be able to finally capture the story untold within me and put into to words.
Anyway, this is an entry without especific purpose but I needed to get it out of me.