Sour Grapes

I have been locked out of my blog. The tragedy lies in the identity of the culprit.

I cannot join the chorus of complaints about middling web hosting services and technological glitches; not even can I lay the blame at the corporate feet of the perennially incompetent Time Warner Cable. I haven’t any tales of Prim infiltration by Putin’s Russian hackers. No, I am the problem. My choking perfectionism precludes me from even making a start.

I soothe the pain of procrastination, of abandoned passion, with mental manipulation, my favorite being that I am not meant to be a writer. Negating my history—my absence of memory sans the written word, my first grade story writing, the engraving of words upon my mind—I tell myself that this writing thing is but a folly. Worse, I may even want to be a writer purely for ego gratification, for the cool and the cred of the writer image.

My excuses are but crippling untruths.  I am sad living without writing.

I want to let myself back in.

Artwork:
Fox and grapes [Illustration]..  (n.d.).  Retrieved from http://www.polyvore.com/fox_grapes/set?id=13866908.