The evidence that I am only a writer in my mind is strengthened by the dismal truth that I own–and have started–at least 6 journals in my adult years but have only written 1 or 2 pages in each.  Don’t get me wrong; my intention is not to collect journals like some people collect salt & pepper shakers.  My intention has always been to actually write in them, to record my thoughts, reflections, hopes, dreams, etc.  But the road to you-know-where is paved with good you-know-whats!  I would say that the problem is that I have my most prolific litterateur moments when I am no where near a pen and paper or word processing program. Once I do return to that opportune place the extraordinary storm of ideas that I had begins to quickly dissipate like a dream that was once so vivid but in the retelling the details evaporate. Or like cotton candy which appears to have no substance the moment it touches moisture and heat.

If I set aside time to write my mind is frequently devoid of any literary thought.  It is as though the very sight of a computer screen has the effect of wiping clean the creative portion of my brain.  I might as well be embarking on a class in astrophysics…

If only I could get down in writing all the amazing text that is floating around in my mind…