The little death

In my recent attempt at a novel, a man approaches my character in a dream and asks him, "What are you so afraid of?" This is how I feel about this blog. About writing. Afraid.

I also recently told a friend that I wanted to write something beautiful. I find my usual work is intelligent, well-written, truthful, heck, even poignant, but never beautiful. I can't blame the content. The images I conjure in my head are indescribably beautiful, it is my portrayal of them that is lacking.

So maybe that is what I am afraid of. That I am incapable of it. That I will somehow fail myself in my writing.

The only time I feel free when writing is when I tell myself it doesn't matter...