Ironically, I'm writing here about my spectacular lack of writing.
I know I can write - I can string words together and form passable sentences and I know, vaguely, what a verb is.
And I love to write. I love to take the ideas that live and roam freely in my brain and watch them appear, in black and white, on paper or on a screen.
So why doesn't ability + love = writing?
I have a few theories.
One theory is that I am lazy. Very, very lazy. Also, I'm a procrastinator. The combination of the two make for a very unproductive writer.
Another theory is fear of failure. I have no lack of ideas, but for some reason I feel that when they come out of my brain, they'll be pure fail and I'll be so discouraged that I'll give up.
I know, intellectually, that this is ridiculous. I know that it's ok to write something that's horrible because it might be a precursor to something that's amazing. And writing, any writing, is better than no writing.
So one part of my brain knows this, but the other part of my brain (the one attached to my fingers), is in denial.
And that's part of the reason I started this blog. I know that the readership is negligible and that means that it's a "safe" place for me to write...anything. Even if it's horrible.
And I'm also hoping that this blog will keep me from being lazy. If I remember that "Stephopolis" is sitting here, waiting for me, maybe I'll actually come and use it.
I want 2010 to be the start of a new, more loving relationship between me and my words.