I used to write some pretty good stuff. I think. Now, I write crap that makes hyenas chew their own living guts out.
Elsewhere, I think I do pretty good.
Wanna know something funny? My shoulders hurt so bad, that even using a pencil is problematic. Video game stress, I think.
I have scattered, bloody chunks of novels all around the house. Life intrudes, and the meat explodes and turns dark.
I can write a short story, or novella that will make you cry. And I have no idea how to get rid of it, profitably.
This blogging stuff is easy. Heck, writing is easy. But even Chuck had a Dickens of a time getting rid of his for profit.
Oh well... Everything is 'Art' now. I'd be uncomfortable being in that club, and would join none such as would have me.
Not that I'm fighting off offers...