Promises, promises, promises.....

Almost two months have passed and not one word....not one....has graced this blog. Oh, they've been written....I have several drafts that remain frozen and not yet posted....Why, why do I sit here and write and rewrite words and thoughts that will remain locked up and probably not be shared???
Here I am at 57, I think, and still face the demons of insecurity. I was on a roll for awhile. The thoughts, the fears, the dreams, all rolling off of my fingers for the whole world, well my little world, to examine, judge, scoff, question and criticize. I didn't care. I was writing again after so many years.
It wasn't as if I didn't have anything to say. My oral diarrhea flowed like the next day after a bad meal at a cheap Tex-Mex restaurant. I have blamed a lack of time, a lack of ideas, a lack of inspiration for what is actually a lack of guts. I write because I write. I do it for my pleasure and no one else's.........that's a lie.....I write for approval. I write because I like to entertain.
Is any of this any good?... Maybe. But does it really matter. Hell, I don't know. But what is it about one's psyche that makes him want to act on a stage only to throw up right before he enters the scene?
We all know the stories of shy, demure actors and actresses who hate the spotlight but can never get enough of it......That's me. I crave the attention and then regret it when it comes my way.
I had been fortunate enough to have my blog listed as "one to read" by a larger well-respected blog. The honor seemed like enough just to be mentioned. But I stopped posting and now have dropped off of the list. I had a chance to write some musings for a local neighborhood supplement and let it fall by the wayside. I blamed everyone but myself.
I have a novel I dream about writing and can't get past the first couple of pages.
Years ago as an editor for a bi-monthly newspaper I found myself working until the last few minutes scrambling to have the finished paste-up sent to the presses. The deadline had to be met. No excuses. I always made it, but why did I suffer the anxiety of waiting till the last minute. Why couldn't I just write the words, accept them for what they were and begin working on the next edition. Fear of acceptance, I guess.
I guess it's my manic/depressed mind that controls what I do.
I love it when I have 3 or 4 cigarettes burning in the ashtray at the same time. Two separate cups of coffee going stale as I pound out the words still only using one finger at a time. I love it and I hate it. Ah yes, the wonderful crazy world of a writer.....okay, not a writer......damn it...yes, I am......well, maybe...........jeez, am I screwed up or what??