Writing

I have tried to write many different stories over the last few years, but I can't seem to proceed with any of them. Something in the tone stops me from going any further. These stories seem--cynical, angry, sarcastic--qualities that certainly come from somewhere deep inside me. Have I grown too old, too abraded by life, to write anything truly wonderful? Perhaps. Perhaps I've become worn down by parenthood. Perhaps I can't tolerate coffee any more--it only makes me an irritated jerk, tightens my tendons into a spasm of pain, and leaves me unable to manage my life. I'm constantly overburdened. It's hard enough just to find time to paint. At least I can sell paintings. At least that's something.

But I'll tell you something. Writing is the holy grail. It is by far the greatest of all arts.

And I can't seem to do it any more.