As though I need any more excuses not to write, I've pulled out a bunch of books that I loved and I've started reading. The thought was that they would inspire me. The thought was wrong.
Sometimes I look at what I love to read and I think it seems so easy. You have a story -- you tell it. Then, there are times like now that reading makes me see the futility of my own aspirations. These people, these writers, they have so much more to offer than I have. They have lives that are interesting, educations that have informed them.
Where do they get their certainty?
It seems stupid, but I keep waiting for something to happen that will kick-start my 'ability' to write. When I'm away from the computer, all these ideas and scenes come. Then, I sit down and it's like I'm afraid to even open the word processor. Truly -- afraid -- like actual panic. That's just insane.
When I reread some of the stuff I've written in the past, it's good, but it's like someone else wrote it. I can't even remember doing it except in some vague way.
Maybe I've let it go too long. Maybe writing is not my destiny.
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