I'm Only Halfway Through My Coffee

I wonder if writing about writing is at all productive to what I'm trying to accomplish here. I keep trying to think of something else to write about but all that comes out are things about my personal life that the rest of the world could do without knowing.

But when it comes down to it, isn't that a large portion of why and what I write? I mean, it pretty much is all about me. I realized this last night when I was replying to a forward my mother sent me that was one of those Myspace-esque surveys (God bless her) and there was a question about how I handle anger and my answer is that I write it out. And I do. Whether it's in an IM conversation to someone or something like this blog (or my locked Livejournal) or my idea book, I just write everything out. It's just what I do. I guess I never viewed it as something particularly special because I've just always done that. It's easier for me to communicate in the written word than spoken or sung.

I hate blogging sometimes because I feel like I ought to be cohesive and each entry should have a beginning, middle, and end like a terrible five-paragraph essay.

The story I want to write the most has the hardest time coming out because of what associations it has and the situations it was born from.