One of the most difficult things about writing to me is the concept of taking roughly a million thoughts floating around in my brain, like balloons lifting high into the sky - trying to capture them and put them into some sort of order that makes sense. Much of the time my thoughts are equally as vulnerable, prone to popping and deflating. Often before they are even solidly anchored in my head, they disappear. I make attempts at scribbling partial, cryptic thoughts onto notecards and into various Moleskin notebooks only to look back and have no sense of what it is I thought was so brilliant about my idea. I sit before a blank Word document with a flashing cursor and have nothing to give it. I want to pour out all of myself at once - a myriad of thoughts and stories and depth of conviction, but no matter how I try, they all tangle up tightly like a shoelace that has twisted so all the threads become as one.
This is the frustration with writing or thinking myself a writer - the never actually writing.