Flatulence

Most of this week I've spent mulling over ideas and writing them down. I'm sick to death of my own voice. When I read over things I've written I feel sheepish, at best; physically ill and repulsed, at worst. I'm mentally exhausted. I sat down to read a book this afternoon and promptly fell asleep.
Most disconcerting in this is the fact that I have mostly been writing as part of an effort of discipline: writing daily because I enjoy it and want to do it.
I know writing is hard work but I never expected I'd want to disavow everything I write.
It feels like a collosial waste of time and effort, culminating in too much vapor.
I wonder if career writers ever feel this way. What do I honestly have to say that is worth coaxing into words and lines?
I need to go wash my dishes or talk to someone with something really significant to say (a child perhaps?).
Whose genius idea was it to start up a blog???

Everybody's Doing It

So I've tinkered with the idea of setting up a weblog for a long time now. If you are reading this then you are probably one of the two or three people I created this for (myself being one). I'm hoping this blog will serve a dual purpose:
1) It will be a personal journal which, unusually, I will actually know where to find.
2) It will end (some of) the frustration of one or two people who hate me for my reclusiveness but, amazingly, still love me.

We'll see if I can consistently pick up the keyboard, as I seem unable to do with a pen or a telephone.