I have been getting into writing a bit more often as of late. Not here, as you can tell, but elsewhere. And by elsewhere I mean in a small black moleskine notebook and in my phone and text documents. I've been writing a lot of poetry, for I now have a new muse who has kindled a great deal of fire and desperation inside me, and gathering ideas for short stories and novels. Thinking back upon last November and why I stopped writing for NaNoWriMo I feel a bit regretful. I think now that I should have kept up with it and finished it. Even though the basic premise were done before, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty being that Ur story, I hadn't encountered it before and I do have something to say about that very thing. We don't cease to write love poems because Roses are Red and Shakespeare got there first and, in the later instance, done so with a clarity and power that no one could hope to match. I shouldn't be discouraged by the existence of something similar. I should write and show that same thing through my lens, through my perspective, through my filter.