words.

so, i want to be a writer, but i hate saying it out loud. i think it seems so pretentious. and then, once i declare that intention, i figure i open myself up to all criticism. like: "you don't use the world troglodyte enough" (response: "i don't even know what troglodyte means!"), "your grammar is atrocious" (response: "i'm sort of a futurist."), and "well, write something then." the last isn't really a criticism, just a bit of snide motivation, and i don't have a good response. i do write a lot of first pages, though. and i like to think that i think in a writerly manner which is just the sort of nonsense statment you'd expect to hear from lazy wannabe novelists.

i could take this moment to explore what keeps me back from pounding out readable material, but i am not going to.

i was just reading my friends' blogs today and thought they wrote such beautiful entries about a plethora of things from the mundane to the profound. they are all writers and literature classes should study their posts. really. and i know this sounds like trite praise. but it is not. i was just thinking, "man, i don't know if my writing could convey the simple, resplendent honesty of it all like these do." so i was actually feeling jealous while basking in the life of their words.

and see, now i've gotten sort of pedantic. if that even is the right word.