Is This Writer's Block

For my birthday i was given a leather bound notepad from James. "Now you can write your beautiful thoughts in a beautiful place" said the card. A lovely sentiment really, i guess he knows me better than i thought. i have always had an unspoken dream of being a writer, imagining twisting plots and speaking my future characters dialogue at every moment alone. On bus journeys i think about the lives of the passengers and how for a moment we are all connected. I carry a cheap jotter pad that i am always scribbling in. On the days i forget my pen i feel i have left a part of me behind. When i read the newspaper i imagine different stories for the headlines. I love reading the lonely hearts, people's hopes and dreams in sixty words desparately trying to show that they are different from all the others on the page. Everything i do, i see and hear i think of in terms of a story. Everyday i try to write something of worth. The compulsion is inescapable. But sitting in front of this beautiful leather bound book, with it's empty white pages full of possibilities i am afraid of making a mark.