Just found this blurb that I'd forgotten to post:

I'm very temperamental about my writing. An example: I just had a marvelous time writing a religion paper for school. I'd been dreading it for almost three weeks and today I finally got around to writing it. Which is weird. Usually that combination of fear and procrastination result in a hurried, under-worded essay that is all but incomprehensible, much less fun to write. Not so today.

I just wish I could turn my writing mode on (and off!) at will.  Like now. I'm nowhere near a stopping point in school, but I honestly can't stop thinking about writing. I don't even have anything to say, but I couldn't stop thinking about just sitting down in my quiet room with a pencil and notebook.

One thing that I've been growing used to (I'm not sure if it's a good or bad habit yet) is that I can't write on the computer. For a few months now, my writing on the computer has turned into scrambled essay language. So, to counteract that, I've gotten into the habit of composing these blog-destined masterpieces by hand and spend my waning computer time copying them out on here. It feels more personal somehow. This sounds weird, but I know that I wrote it if I can hold the hard copy in my hand and see the words crammed onto the page. On the computer it all seems so inhuman. I go back to edit and delete half of what I wrote because it just looks silly. I indulge my inner editor and end up deleting half of what I write. That doesn't happen nearly as often when it takes actual time to erase all my words, as opposed to clicking them out of existence. And at least on paper I remember that even if my story stinks, my handwriting is still pretty. :)

Here's another example. I wrote a prompt last week and my friend was reading it straight from the notebook. I had been planning on posting it, but for some reason I was getting really nervous by showing it in it's raw form. It looked so vulnerable. I had to stop it. It's still coming up here, and when it does I'll be fine, but I'm still too emotionally invested in it to expose my precious now.

My history book has been staring me down for the past age and my conscience is starting to kick in. I shall leave you now, in peace, to contemplate the mysteries of my complex writing style. Ciao.