I'm feeling much better today. I was just in such a bad place on Saturday. Not sure why.

I wrote an entire entry last night that I'm so not going to post. It was pathetic and tiresome and painted me in a very bad light. I'm sure that light will shine soon enough. But not yet. Not yet.
I've been reading a lot of journals on Diaryland lately. Just hopping around from link to link to link. The more I read the more insecure I get. The more boring my own life seems. The more my writing just feels trite.

Oh man, here comes that bad light again. Let me back off. . . .

Maybe some of the melancholy has to do with creating this journal - this journey. With putting myself out there. Wondering if anyone is reading me. Wondering what they're thinking - what you're thinking.

What are you learning about me? What conclusions are you coming to because of it? What's your judgment?

But even if I'm the only one whose eyes dance across these words, I have to keep believing that this exercise is still beneficial. To write everyday. Write something real - not just taglines and blurbs for the Brand. I need to get that passion back. The passion I had for letting my pen scrawl across a page unhindered.

I never thought much about writing until fourth grade. It was just something I did at night in my Poochie diary. The one with pink-lined pages. The one I shared my love of James W. with. 
I never gave it a second thought. Until Miss McCray. 

She had us write and illustrate a book. I shunned Scooby Doo for that homework assignment. It was amazing, this chance to share the adventures I'd created in my head. I still remember the sparkle in her young eyes when she pulled me close to her head so she could whisper in my nine-year-old ear - You have to be a writer, Hannah. Talent she said. A gift, she said. But she was young. We were one of her first classes. How many Hannahs did she whisper to in the years to come?

I just feel like I have no stories to tell. I have no heartache. I have no great love. And when I think like this - when I think I have nothing to say - those are the moments my mind floods with all the things I want to say. All the stories I want to tell you. The waves roll inside me. The words tingle on my tongue. I could tell you about my father. Or my grandparents. I could tell you my secrets. The fleeting thoughts that horrify me.

But when I try it all sounds superficial. Look at the silly suburban girl - the one who thinks she knows pain. The one who thinks she's had it rough. How laughable. How ridiculous she is.

Is this normal? Do you second guess your stories? Your experiences? A friend once told me he'll never try and publish his book - he doesn't think anyone will want to read it. I think he's crazy. So many people would want to know what he has to say. But he's had that great love. He's had heartache. I don't know. Maybe I'm analyzing this too much.

I'm not boring you, am I?