writing

I have a love of reading.  I am not sure love is the correct word.  After the first few pages I find myself settling comfortably into the obsession yet again.  Yes, obsession is probably a more accurate word.  The words invade my mind and I cannot stop.  Being in the middle of a book means my days are filled of thoughts about said book, and I cannot wait for my next chance to learn more of the characters.  I yearn to know what fate the author has intricately woven and predestined for each of them.  This is why I have not yet been able to write.  I hope and plan to write one day.  Short stories maybe, or even that one great novel that people dream about.  I am, however, paralyzed.  I do not begin to write.  I  cannot even note ideas because I am intimidated by the immense talent a multitude of authors have had to shape stories which have driven my obsession for years.  My ideas come and go, and almost every time I pause and convince myself the particular idea could not possibly capture the mind and imagination of my most severe audience and critic, whom I know quite well is me.   

(should be studying for the bar right now...)  :)