6/16/04

I find it difficult to write anymore. I sit down and I stare at the white box, hoping that words will come out. Nothing happens. I want to write everyday. Since I was old enough to start reading, I’ve loved books. I’ve read whatever I can get my hands on and my favorites I’ve read over and over. I started wanted to write in the sixth grade. I want to be able to put on paper something that can take a person’s breath away, make them forget who they are and get them to feel that what they are reading is real. That’s what a good book does to me and I want to share that with others. Instead all I do is talk about my day and other useless stuff.

I just don’t know anymore. I want to be something I’m not. Who I am rigt now is who I’ll always be. I’ll never be a writer, that’s an unattainable dream for me. What I am is a loving husband, I’ll be a loving father in a few months and I’m a salesman. That’s me in a nutshell. There’s no writer in there, no matter how much I’d like to be. You know why I’m not a writer? I can never think of a good way to end my entries.