Writing about writing — or trying to write and failing — is stupid. I have the time to write this, I should be writing something else.

But This is my experiment. I’m a perfectionist, and it often happens that I sit down in front of my computer with a million ideas bouncing off the walls of my brain. They’re screaming they’re so excited to get the F out. I manage to pound out a few sentences before this lunatic inside of me seizes on a misplaced comma or an awkward word and takes over.

An entire day will pass — my ideas die in utero, my head hurts … A single, perfect sentence stares back at me from the monitor, and then it’s time for bed.

This is my diary of drivel — my place to rant about family and politics and whatever else is gumming up the works inside my brain. In other words, don’t bother me I’m writing, will serve as a laxative for my literary constipation.