I was an English major once. For awhile. Until I realized that the concentration I wanted didn’t exist where I was; until I realized being an English major where I was meant being told in more than one class how to feel about Willy Loman.

This all came about because of a story I wrote in first grade. Purple crayon on orange construction paper, bound with green yarn and illustrated, horribly, with line drawings of my dog (or a sheep – it’s debatable).

I’ve always wanted to write, and I’ve always written. Short stories and formless poetry, mostly, because I lack both the attention span and motivation to finish anything longer.

I started a novel a few (um, five? six?) years ago. It has a beginning and it has an end. Both have been massaged and tweaked to the point that I probably couldn’t part with them if the guts of the story dictated that I needed to. The thing, though, is that the story has no guts. That’s (partly) why I majored in English. I was misguided in thinking that it would inspire me. I was looking for ideas and tips and hope in the deep, dark corners of academia, and I got nothing. I stopped writing. I took a semester off. I changed my major.

I wrote something like 3500 words yesterday. I go back to school soon. As a business major.

It seems simple, right? I know I’ve heard it before; trying so hard rarely yields good results. When I stopped thinking about how beat down I felt about writing, it came to me, and I am so, so excited for everything I’ve written recently, despite the fact that by most standards, it is probably crap.

That’s where I’ve been. That’s why blog posts have been dribbling in once a month. I know I wouldn’t like to read daily updates along the lines of “wrote a sentence today. good sentence. hope for another soon.”