my secret self

Writing.  A passion and a curse.

In my secret inner self, I am a prolific writer.  Words flow out of me as easily as sap from a maple in the spring.  My words have meaning and magic.  People can't wait to read my next edition.  My words are as savory and sweet as that most memorable entree and dessert in that wonderful out-of-the-way place you discovered by accident one day last summer.  I astound myself with my brilliance.

Then there is the real me, who thinks alot of things, but who lacks eloquence, and can't find the right expression at the most crucial of moments. 

I love to read so much....  Why can't I write like all the authors I love so much?

It seems that the words lose their luster once on the page because... well... what if I am the only one who sees their beauty and their significance?  What if the only thing I write is a pile of crap?  The shame of it all.

Enough shame.   Bring on the words!