Still depressed about my writing. Well, I'm either depressed about it or having grandiose delusional dreams about being famous and being on David Letterman's show. I still can't figure out why I'm writing. I don't really even enjoy it that much, despite the fact that when I do sit down to actually do it, the words stream out easily. Everyone who has ever read my writing, had told me to write for a living. Me, I'd rather climb the corporate ladder surely but slowly and get paid shit loads of money. I know how to do the business thing and really well too. And my last job, people really respected me and asked me my opinion all the time. I hated people asking me what to do, but my friend Amy thought it was a sign of respect that people gave so much power to me. I had that at my last job too. My stupid boss kept telling me to watch what I said, because people in the company really valued my opinion.

I hated all the responsibility of those two jobs. I was always on my guard, I didn't trust anyone and I had to be so careful of my behaviour. All that corporate stuff now seems like walk in the park compared to writing. At least in a corporation, I knew how to behave, how to get ahead. With writing, I'm so drowning, not knowing if I'm any good. And then part of me thinks that if it were up to me, none of what I wrote would every be any good, so how can I even trust my own opinion.

I wish there was another way of creative expression that was so easily and readily available to me. But there isn't. Writing is what's there for me. Writing comes naturally and easily to me, never mind the fact that grammatically it's shit.

I wish I had a crystal ball and could look into my future to see if I do keep writing 10 years from now, or is this just another phase I'm going through.

Then there's those stupid damned stories that won't get out of my head. Voices of characters who want me to write down their story and who bug my constantly even when I'm in the shower. Sometimes I feel like I'm being haunted by the spirits of characters looking for a writer who they can tell their story to, a writer who will listen to them and who will just let them babble on forever about their life. I fee like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost when she found out she really had the gift. It's like every character from here to eternity is camping inside my head, telling their story over and over again, till I get tired of hearing them and finally write it down. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just delusional like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind.

Sometimes I wonder if there's a big hole in my head where spirits can slip in and live for quite a long time. Spirits of people I don't even know, have never met and will probably never meet in real life. I don't think all my characters are dead either, but just living their life as best they can, somewhere else.

I don't know if I want this gift. I feel like I've had it all my life, but it's only in the last 5 years that I've let it flourish. I know it's bad karma to turn down a gift, but there's got to be a limit somwhere.