I promise

It's all about me

Here I am again. I wish I knew what to say. It seems when I write this stuff down, it's pure and utter garbage. But somehow when I reread my words, there some. coherency there. I wonder if James Patterson has these problems. but it's a good feeling to get this out of me, even if I don't actually know where it's going. I wish my writing were better. My words seem flat and u interesting. B maybe the words don't matter since this is just a brain dump. But I wish my writing were more interesting? Less trivial? I don't know. I realize I'm writing about me, so it must be me-centered, but I can't eliminate the fact that someone else will read this someday and wonder if I'm really fascinated with gazing at my navel. I suppose I want to please the unknown reader. But I can't. All I can do, in being true to this writing, is to write about me. Perhaps if I do this for long enough, better writing will arrive. Maybe. But until then I need to come to terms with my inadequacy and send my inner critic to lunch. So goodbye Dolores; I manage without you just fine, really. Enjoy your manicure, and I'll see you later--- much, much later. There. I've written something. I guess I'm done now. And if you're reading this, it will get better. I promise.