I recently watched a news story about a twelve year old musical genius. Professors labeled him the new Mozart and he has already written three symphonies. The journalist who was interviewing him asked, “Do you ever go back and change the music? Edit?” The boy replied that he didn't, he heard the symphony complete in his head, and the way it came out at first was exactly the way he wanted it. A certain music professor pointed out the issue caused by such a sense of confidence. The only way to foster your talent, he claimed, was to constantly doubt yourself. I've also seen other various quotes and sayings about how only bad writers never question their writing or redo it and that it's always the stupid people who open their mouths and the wise ones who remain silent.

By these calculations I must be a brilliant writer. I've tried to get inspired by events around me by attempting to write down my friends' life stories (if they are interesting enough) or imagine some sort of twisted scenarios including random strangers and places I come across. I've tried to sit on my laptop listening to good music, hoping it will somehow open a gateway into my creative mind. All that ever did was distract me because any music which is that good needs its own paying attention to. When at a loss for eloquent words I google the thesaurus for some and we all know what kind of writer that makes me. A google one. And nobody wants to be a google writer.

In this piece I have yet to use any writing aids but that doesn't really say much about it, does it? Maybe it just sucks slightly more. I guess it all boils down to my lack of patience. Yes, I am an obnoxious, pretentious brat who thinks that I will magically be able to produce something worth reading. This is not really worth reading. This is a YouTube rant on paper. This is not even paper. Its a screen, and if you can afford it, unlike me, its probably a high resolution one.

I told my friend that my writing would never come to anything. The amount of dead-end documents I have on this little laptop is outrageous. It's like a waste basket overflowing with crumpled papers and yet I can't bring myself to just chuck it in the dumpster because maybe I will come back to it and breathe life into it again. If you are confused about all of those metaphors and similes in the last sentence so am I. At first my laptop was a garbage can, then it became a breathing entity. That sentence had as little stamina and longevity as the rest of my stuff.

Stuff. What a lackluster word. It means everything and yet nothing at all. I suppose it's vague words like that which cloud my mind and don't allow me to just pinpoint what I am actually trying to say. Cloud my mind. I have a feeling George Orwell would refer to that as a dead metaphor. (See, Politics and the English Language) Does anybody actually visualize a fog over my mind? If they do, I am mistaken and thoroughly apologize. I know I don't.

It's been a while and I have gotten absolutely nowhere. Who said that everything has to have a point anyways? If it was your Literature teacher, then fire her/him. Just kidding. They're right. Wait, why did you read this again?