APPROXIMATELY a year ago, when, young and naive, I ventured on to Fanfiction.net with starry eyes and a bright disposition, I had assumed I would grow into a blossoming author with myriads of ideas and prompt delivery, vivacious in my style and widely beloved on the face of the intarweb.

Well.

Sitting at my computer, 366 days later, I realize I have become one of those types, the types who promises but never delivers, and honestly? Improvement has been minimal. Very minimal.

Of course, I still try to keep my writing within my own comfort confines, because honestly, I really do try to write in the canon, despite failing horribly 94.54329 percent of the time. I just can't stand the type of 'romance' (so to speak) where the characters meet, and, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, trip and fall into each other's pants.

So at least you can never expect meaningless sex from me, and, if that's what you're looking for, then, dammit, I've failed again.

...Now that I think about it, you can probably never expect sex from me (AND THAT NIGHT MEANT NOTHING). Because, besides the fact that I'm a big pansy, I still suck at writing. Which counts. Who says sex needs to happen to make something worthwhile, anyway? Who wrote the book on love? What came first, the chicken or the egg? And how did Dagwood get a babe like Blondie? Some things are just better off unanswered.

Right. What I'm really trying to say is if I take too long to write, just sort of kick me around a bit, maybe I'll get the point.