A Fit

I just spent about an hour updating the look of this blog because I wanted to write, but now that I've spent an hour playing with this thing I hardly have a desire to write. I keep changing locations for a journal on the internet because I think the new internet locale will have a better, more attractive view from its patio, like I thought maybe Diaryland would provide a place in the mountains, somewhere clean and clear and pristine where I would be inspired to write. Instead, it was too lonely and isolated. I came back here with a makeover, something new and pure and simple, but a place with a history of my presence - maybe a small and clean flat in London is where this blog is now. I tried the beach, the Riviera, the Los Angeles of Livejournal, but really, it's not the place. It could be, any place could be it at the beginning, but when it comes down to it, it's just me and my inspiration or non-inspiration to write.

This happens in the real world too. I have a locked desk drawer at home here in California with a stack f journals that have introspective entries on the first five pages (if they're lucky, usually it's about two pages) and then NOTHING. With each one, I vowed it would be my new tell-all, write-all place to outsource my feelings. I would sketch in it, cut out things that caught my fancy, and from time to time write things that rivaled [any famous/respected author that I like]. The problem is I have an ideal in my mind of what I want my journals and creative process to be that I have not yet been able to bend myself to. The books that I have ended up writing in have been ones that weren't pretty or nice or special. I just started writing. Blank pages are too frightening - blank books even worse. Each time I buy a book that's pretty (a Moleskin, for example), that first page always scares me although I want nothing more than to make a beautiful mark on it right away. When I delve in, I'm always unhappy with the result and ditch the book altogether. I stress out too much. I think too much. Each time I think, this is the journal they are going to find when I am dead. This is the stuff they'll posthumously publish.

Each time I am wrong.