Not too much to say right now, but it's been a while since I last wrote.

Here's a depressing thought. I tried to write today, and a bunch of crap spewed forth. I think I have something important to say, but sometimes I don't have the courage to write it. Today I wonder if it's because I was trying to write while in my office on my regular work computer. That may be part of the problem.

But for all you real writers out there, what's the secret? How do you not write trash? Do all writers think they suck? If so, how do I know whether I really do or not?

Sometimes I worry that in ten years I'll still be grasping at the border of the writing world, too scared to actually enter, too obsessed to let the dream go. In other words, I'll be a depressed hack who watched everything she wanted pass her by without even taking a step toward it, but still wanting it like crazy. How pathetic.

Today I'm having a cynical day. In fact, you might call it a self-loathing day. Not just an hour or two, but one whole day of wallowing around in my own dislike of me. Join me, please.

One of my favorite Calvin and Hobbes strip had Calvin saying something to the effect of: Why should I have to work for the things I want? That's like saying I don't deserve it.

I feel like that sometimes. It's a ludicrous thought, but don't you ever just think you were God's gift to the world, and the world doesn't even know it? I can't imagine how I managed to fit such a large ego in with my self-hatred, but I do it. There they are, co-existing like they were best friends, hating me and loving me all at the same time. Or maybe they're siamese twins. Or split personalities. Or something.

What is the point of this entry? Your guess is as good as mine. I want to say something horrible, something to shock you and make you run away screaming. Maybe you already did that. Or maybe you're still here.

I imagine you as I write this, like I'm having a conversation with you, like I even know who you are. Even if we've met before, I maintain that I don't truly know you, and you don't really know me. We only know what we choose to reveal to each other, to others.

But I imagine that you're a friend. Maybe a lover. That you analyze what I have to say, that you don't think I'm as crazy as I pretend to be. I guess this entry is turning out to be a love letter to you, as odd as that may sound. I didn't say anything especially loving, but you saw the meaning behind the words, right? I don't think you'll actually read this, but maybe the internet vibes will reach your body, your ears, and you'll know that someone loves you too.

 

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