Something struck me the other day...like, literally.
The massive mess of a room I reside in was being shuffled around as usual and of course that warrants the scattered sheets of papers containing my scribbles. As a nice one subject college rule notebook decided to flutter down from the paper volcano of a desk landing on my head as I was bent cleaning under my bed, I decided to take a pause - while clearing my bloodly vision and read a few of my writings.
Never a good idea. They can be just as addictive as reading a book. Except, not in the same way.
Aside from cringe at the insanity that was my writing, I've come to a rather disgruntled realization. I. Suck. At. Writing. Romance.
Instead, my greatest (I use that word lightly since my writing samples really are a bit horrific) writing pieces were satires, irony, or subtle yet crazy humor. Yeah. I can't seem to write romance. Nooooooooooooo~~~~ There goes that dream I never even realized I had. Not that I wanted to write romance, but I just never thought it would be that bad. Like... Really bad!
The worst part of it was that when I wrote whatever it was, I was also sincerely serious. Gah they were bad.
Guess if I ever should go into a writing career *scoffs*, I'd stay away from romance. Yet somehow, that thought makes me really sad.
How do you choose between something you want to do and something you're good at?
P.S. Found out blogs weren't blocked at work. Heheheh. Going to try to surf more often, but with current workload. Le sigh.