My Baby, now so far from me, the distance, see, will be the death of me.
So, some of you know I pretend to be a writer. I was a prolific and mildly talented writer in my past. I dreamed novel sized stories, but could never get past the short ones, there were a couple I wrote out to 150 pages with the outline and general story written out, but they died there. It took me years to both realize and then accept, that I was no good at anything but some hybrid of prose and poetry that is heavily non conforming to the accepted rules of writing, grammar and english. My problem is rooted somewhere in one or more of my mental illnesses, I just can't absorb nor comprehend (translate to an understandable example) accepted structure and rules for any type of writing. The words go down on the paper the way they come into my head. They don't want to be amended, they come into my head the way my mind perceives them to be correct and meaningful to what I am trying to express, which in my skewed brain, is the correct form, again, to ME, but maybe not to anyone else....
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