So this is my first possibly last blog posting. I am not what you would call a writer. I have many diaries that have empty pages. I keep thinking if I buy one that inspires me to write in it, I have yet to find a journal that meets this requirement. Oh some come close. I write for maybe a month in them and then for some unexplained reason the thing that inspired me to write suddenly makes me hate writing and inspires me to quit.
Some of the journals of years past have ranged from plane Jane to the what I would deem the empress of journals. Some have composition notebooks, while others have been beautiful cloth bound master pieces. Still I stop writing, still I find they cannot keep my interest.
Then I wonder perhaps it is me that is the problem, if none of these wonderful journals can keep my interest then surely I am to blame. That thought is quickly dismissed as I know there is nothing in the world wrong with me. I am perfect in every flaw ridden part of me. From my poor grammar skills to my inability to spell even the simplest of words. No no no it couldn't be me. Not lazy ol' me! It's the journals fault for not being pretty enough, close enough, engaging enough, easy enough. . . :::Sigh::: Shall I continue with my rantings about journals? I think not. Till next time blog-a-sphere.
