Someone once told me that in order to become a writer I have to write something everyday. But what happens when the words escape me? What happens when my life is boring and there simply is nothing worth writing about? But I want to become a writer. I want to write and yet I don’t know what I would write about.
I think about the daily grind and if anything interesting happened to me lately. None. Unless you count dealing with irresponsible engineers who prefer to blame you for everything that goes wrong in the project that their office is managing. I hate irresponsible people with PRC license cards who think it is a right to wield such licenses. Hello, it’s a privilege! I will have my say about all that but not yet.
I could write about our little wookiee. His name is Finn. He’s gaining weight. Lord save me from the word No. Finn knows what No means, but he likes to hear me say it three times before he gives in. Hard headed little wookiee he is. Oh but he’s adorable. He sleeps resting his head on my feet. Sometimes on the couch next to me when I put him there. He like’s being taught tricks. He can sit now. 
sooooo cuuuuuuute.
Oh but I was writing about being a writer. And I probably won’t be one just yet, seeing how my fingers dance around the keyboard this way and that, not really thinking about where this post is going.
