Marry Plopper

I think everybody at least once in their lives have dreamed of becoming a writer. I actually walked the dream. But it turned out, the dream doesn't agree with me. Apart from the fact that I might actually be a crappy writer, I don't have what it takes to be a real journalist. I dreamed of becoming a National Geographic reporter once, and I'm watching my dream dying from day to day. It's pretty sad. How I've planned my whole life for this ambition. Stepping on the exact stones I should step on. Yet somehow, I don't feel it. Writing is merely a passion for me. Not a hint of a profession. It's something that comes out of me. Not something I receive from an observation.
So here I am, or here we are, blogging, pretending that everybody gives a shit on what we write. While you know, even this post would just go unnoticed.

Should I invent a Marry Plopper to be equivalent to J.K. Rowling?

I miss the day I was so alive.

I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love. I felt in myself a superabundance of energy which found no outlet in our quiet life.
-Leo Tolstoy in "Family Happiness"