three-hundred & forty-eight.
"I know you have come to kill me.
Shoot coward, you are only going to kill a man."
Reading back through old logs makes me feel really shitty. You'd think the quality and fluidity of your reading would improve as you aged, but evidently not. I was writing better when I was seventeen than I am now at twenty. Yeah, maybe the writing was a little pretentious. I was seventeen. It's all about the word choices. There are some words I use now that piss me off when I sneak them into writing. "Well"s and "just"s and "very"s and "really"s. Somewhere along the line, I think I lost my spark. Maybe so much writing tired me out, stripped me of my creativity.
I don't know what happened to the girl who used to think up narratives about sights, or places, just on the spot in order to write it down later. Before, it was easy to whip out something extraordinary. Now it's like my writing had dulled down, become mediocre. And for the longest time, my writing gave me pride. Gave me hope. It made me stand out in a group of people, and now I feel like I've blended into the masses.
Knowing I was good at something made me feel better about myself, when all I could do was hate myself and be self-deprecating at every chance I got. It's not writer's block. I know my writing style has changed. But I want to go back to when I was eighteen and could write these vivid, visceral pieces of writing that shocked me even later upon rereading.
I think I'm broken.