I had a wonderful entry written in my head on the way to work. It was about writing. Of course, I can't remember any of it now, but it was beautiful.

I've always wanted to write. I've always loved reading and writing, interacting with and being enveloped by the written word. I speak to myself in complete sentences. My internal monologue would be wonderful to record, if only it chose to divulge itself while I was somewhere near a pen..

I am also afraid of writing. I can remember starting my first few novels - well, I certainly intended them to be novels, even if they never grew beyond a few chapters. I would show them to Mom. She would read them, and say that they were good, but she would also mark certain passages with dreaded words like 'trite'. I knew what she was saying - this has been said before, in exactly this way, so many times that you produce no effect with these words.. say it differently. But, it scared me. I want to write, but am afraid to write. Afraid that I won't be able to express things in my own way, afraid that I'm doomed to say things only as they've already been said.

This blog, I think, is my cop out. I can write, but I don't have to be ingenious. I don't have to be profound. In fact, I have my whole Mundane category for when I'm feeling especially plain.

You're probably wondering what prompted this. I picked up some Virginia Woolf, 'A Room of One's Own' to be exact; I've had it in my house forever, and I've never read it. So I started reading. That particular essay is about writing, and it triggered this, the bastardized form of the beautiful post I'd composed in my head that of course flitted away as soon as I stopped to record it. Bother.