I've been reading the Cambridge Companion to Virginia Woolf in search of a specific quote on her writing process and, as usual, her dedication to journaling and letter-writing is both inspiring and exhausting. I look over at my bookshelf at the pitiful little journal I've kept off and on since I went to London in 06. How many thoughts, memories, feelings are now lost? Of course, I have a separate place for 'ideas', quotes, etc, but I could do more. That's the problem with being a writer-type. You never feel like you're working hard enough, writing enough, thinking enough, living enough....sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm getting my MASTER'S degree and it's ok that I'm not as productive as I *could* be...My monstrous final project has definitely cut into my own writing time, but even when I do manage to write a scrap or two of fiction (or lately lyrics again) I feel guilty/stressed because I have this big deadline looming before me. What I wouldn't give to be an accountant or a housewife or a fishmonger and be *satisfied*. I am my own worst enemy.