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Jul. 16th, 2001 | 11:57 pm

I'm tempted to go out and do something right now... get ice cream or go to the coffeeshop in Virgin Megastore and sit and drink hot chocolate (since I don't like coffee) and write in a little notebook and be very pretentious.

Or perhaps I will just go and get ice cream at Ben and Jerry's, as I did with Crissie in March when the weather first turned warm.

In reality, I probably won't go anywhere.

Writing has been frustrating me lately. I see beauty in others writing that I fail to achieve in my own. It seems that I either overdescribe or underdescribe; I haven't yet mastered the art of finding the right amount of description and the right amount of thoughtful meandering. I approach things so analytically so much of the time that I find the extra description that makes writing beautiful unnecessary. Or rather, said description does not come naturally to me -- once I have found the precise words to convey a thought, I do not seek to find metaphors and illustrations to further convey the same thought. And yet it is precisely those metaphors, when used in the right amounts, that make writing interesting, personal and beautiful.

I am beginning to feel obsessive.

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