Writing isn't in my blood

Every couple of months, something bubbles up inside of me; a delusion that I can be a writer of fiction, or at least an interesting storyteller. This blog helps fuel this delusion and usually that's enough. Then I go a read a short story or article that gets me thinking, "hey, I could write something like that!" Of course what separates me and the author of the work I've just finished reading is that they've finished their creative work while I just keep fragments of ideas written on dirty napkins in a drawer, none of which connect to each other in any meaningful way.

For example, I turn around in my seat and I see a rather large bottle of raspberry vodka (pictured above) that somehow came into my possession via one rather interesting night were I was left, much to my displeasure, with the recently dumped girlfriend of one my friends here in Windsor. The events surrounding how I somehow got left with the responsibility to watch over this devastated girl can basically be summed up like this - everyone else had left the bar and I hadn't (mostly 'cause I wasn't sober enough to walk anywhere). I stare at this large bottle of alcohol, which until recently I had ever intention of returning, and realize that I have the beginning of a really neat story. Sadly, I can't flesh out the details enough for my own liking. So as I drink another cup of tea (two sugar, one milk) I ponder my abilities as a storyteller.

It also doesn't help that my editing skills leave something to be desired. Oh well, let me think about this a little bit more before I start back to my work.