The great moment of hesitation. When I take up the pen, as it were, to say something.

It's an interesting sensation. Kind of like when words seem to fail me. Like I'm afraid of getting too close to something. Letting too much go, letting too much of myself show and there is the danger.

Maybe it has something to do with the things I believe about reading. That reading carefully enough, you can see into the hidden meaning of things--meanings that the writer didn't even know.

This was taught to me in college and is a cornerstone of my former field, literary interpretation.

But there is, as always, something more personal to it. Somehow I feel as if I can pass through a phone or in-person conversation and "pass" as it were--can intuitively put up some kind of smoke-screen.

But that's not quite it.

It's not like I'm some kind of sociopath like that tv show Dexter. But that there's a secret part of me that just isn't that attractive. That might be revealed to me and to others.

In my head, I know this to be somewhat foolish. People like me, and they've seen me at unattractive moments. Seen me do bad things and let them down, yet still, we've managed to come through.

And to bring it back to writing--there's no reason this should be a privileged field, should somehow reveal the dark corners of the soul...

Still, sitting down to write isn't all that much fun.