Just the other day, when Jo was here visiting, she asked to see a copy of my sci-fi/ fantasy book that I've been in the process of writing for the past eight years. The last time I thought about my story was back in February after which I decided that although the story had potential I should not write it. My reasoning was based on the fact that after years of trying to become a better writer I was still not skilled enough do the story justice. With that decided, I put the story out of my mind forever.

But my mind is full of stories.

A few weeks after I gave up my story I became frustrated by the fact that stories were still haunting me. I asked God what use is it was to have a mind full of stories and have no way to express them. I wondered about other mediums of communication. Maybe I could write screenplays... or stage plays.... or just blog forever and ever. But thinking of other medium still left me annoyed. Writing is writing. And no matter what the medium, I still couldn't write.

Jo never actually got around to reading my story while she was here. I got it out for her, set it on the table and ended up reading it myself. I was surprised to find myself interested in the story line and disappointed when it ended. I actually wished that the story was written by someone else so I could just enjoy the ride and not have to invest so much work in the darn thing.

It has made me wonder that perhaps I should pick it up again and continue. But the agony involved! Every time I go back to my story I have to re-teach myself its complex story line. Not only that but like what has happened in the past, I know I'll probably get frustrated at some point along the way and decide never to write again. I'm stuck in a vicious cycle. Maybe I wont be able to write until I'm 75 and so crippled by arthritis that I have no option but to write day after day, year after year until I'm finally dead. I'd be fine with that as long as in the mean time stories would stop haunting me.