I want some wine with my whine.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I cannot for the life of me…. no matter what I start writing, no matter what the subject matter, I can’t seem to get past a couple of pages. I have oodles and oodles of things to write about. I actually lead a fairly entertaining and chaotic life with a psychotic family and weird and wonderful friends thrown in for good measure… I have a wealth of stories and personalities to draw from. Not to mention I have an over-active imagination. So WHAT is my problem? Well it could be any number of things. One of said things being that I’m afraid that what I’m writing is crap. Worse than crap. Shit. Really stupid shit. Really stupid shit that isn’t even worth writing about, much less reading about. I’ve gotten myself turned around in this self-fulfilling prophecy and now I can’t find my way out. I assume it’s going to bad and so it is. I’m literally staring at my list of little stories and anecdotes and such that should entertain for a good 200 pages or more. That’s not my problem. At least I don’t think that’s my problem. In truth, I’m not really sure what my problem is. I do know that I’m getting frustrated with myself for my lack of dedication and commitment to telling this story. I feel that if I really just did it, if I really just sat down and wrote it, it would be better than I think it is. I’m self-sabotaging myself by convincing myself before I even type a word on the page that it’s not quite good enough. I ask myself how I could possibly think about even thinking about letting someone read it. Argh! Also I’m having trouble deciding, omnipresent or first person? Fuck it. I want some wine.