The inner workings of a troubled mind.

This is not what I had in mind.

Frazzled, freaked out, insecure, and I think scared? If you want the definition of what I have been for the past few months, the previous sentence pretty much sums it up. I have lost sight of why I am writing, which is for myself. I love all my readers. I am grateful to have them. They look past my grammar issues (which I am working hard to correct) and enjoy my stories. I stress about this handicap of mine most of all. On occasion I get a pissed of reviewer who doesn't hold back at tearing apart my work (and my fragile ego) and, in my opinion, must enjoy sinking their teeth into me and tearing out my insides. I know I am being melodramatic, but I really think they enjoy it. The best part is that they leave no constructive feedback, only an in depth paragraph or two of how shitty my story is and how much they hate it. Thank you very much sir.  I do so enjoy the negative onslaught of hate you spew onto the screen. Question hater of my story. Why are you hiding your work? Do you not want me to see great writing with perfect grammar?

I am going back to basics. Write for yourself. That was my original plan. My only goal. Write a book YOU would love to read. I don't care if I ever publish it. I might just publish one for myself so I can place it in my book shelf amongst my favorites. I won't stress about what others think anymore. After all, we are all in the same ball park.

Thanks for stopping by folks.

Tune in next time. Same Bat time, same Bat channel.