2003-01-10-3:40 a.m.
I was going through some of my old entries tonight and I began to realize that my writing was different years ago, better somehow, when I was less sure of myself. I am beginning to doubt my ability to write at all. I never claimed to be a writer, not in the traditional sense anyway. I cannot write poetry or fiction and I know I could never write a novel, I haven't the patience for it. For crying out loud, I can't even sit down and write a research paper more than twelve hours before it's due. You see, when I started writing here my life was in turmoil. I was so unsure of myself, of my future, or everything around me. I have become considerably more well-adjusted in the following years ( at least I hope so) and I have found less and less to tell you about. Or maybe it's not that I have less to tell you that is preventing me from writing as frequently. Perhaps it is merely that I have less of an ability to articulate what it is I wish to say. Maybe the party is over, so to speak. Maybe four years of college has successfully squelched any creativity I once had, leaving me a dithering mess hardly capable of stringing two sentences together. (Exaggerate much Steph?) People responded when I first began, I knew I had touched people back in the beginning. Now I wonder if anyone is listening or if anyone even cares. Where did I go wrong? I think it happened when I stopped being real. I decided not to share myself online in the same way. I began to bore even myself. I felt less fulfilled, like it was a chore to write here more than a joy. I love to write. It's like breathing to me. So why do I feel as if I must force myself to do it?
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