Never before have I ever doubted my path in life. Not where my writing is concerned. I always knew that I growing and learning to do, but I would be better for it. I would be published. Today though, I'm seriously doubting my path in life. I'm beginning to think that writing is a serious waste of time. Something better left in notebooks, journals and thumbdrives lost under the bed or used to line the litter box. Something for me to do when the characters won't shut up, but not to be shared. Not any more.