Spewing forth

I want to write. I do. But it's all stuck and jumbled. My thoughts are like those delicate necklaces found tangled at the bottom of jewelry boxes - all knotty and twisted and very, very fragile. Unraveling them requires patience and focus, and I have that in short supply.

I want it to flow through me gracefully, eloquently. Instead, everything comes forth in fits and spasms - violent eruptions and hiccups and belches. There are some kinks I have yet to work out.

I wouldn't mind so much if they weren't interrupted by so many long sighs and false starts.

I had fantasized that writing would one day reveal my inner genius. Throngs of fans. A weekly column. Publishers and producers banging down my door. World leaders seeking my advice. But the genius is evasive. To date, I have only confronted the slacker, the neurotic, the coward and the critic. The critic is by far the biggest bitch.

I think she's the one behind all this...