I've been beating myself up over the years for NOT producing enough, for not making enough. For not getting enough out. What ever that means

Ironically I'm sitting in a room filled with outs. There are paintings on the walls, papers on the desk. Music on the computer. A myriad of outs and external expressions of myself.

I keep telling myself I should write, because I don't write enough. That I need to finish this novel that I've been working on for the better part of three years. I always say its three years, I've been saying its three years for about three years now. You can do the math.

Then I came to realize that, I've been writing quite a lot over the years. I went through and looked it all up.

short story after short story, poem after poem and blog post and little scribbles here and there. All of which amounts to quite a bit of work. quite a bit of writing and i wanted to express it and get it out there a little bit differently. People can read a lot of this stuff, some of its published and some of it is on lot49.org

But I came to think that maybe I should try reading it aloud. Maybe then it would have a little more value. As if before it was just hidden away in these little cubby holds and cross section of my head.

Maybe if I actually open up my mouth and speak these words that I've written out over the years they'd be more tangible, they'd be more expressive.

So this is what this is, all these words that I've accidently let outside of my head, I'm just going to say them aloud and maybe they'll be more important that way.