Before sleeping, I crack open a thin and weathered paperback to chase away that writer's doubt. Two minutes pass and a harsh sigh escapes me. The pages are turned with sad sweeping motions, and two more minutes slip by unnoticed. I find myself gazing blindly at a page of scattered ink. Profound, published, and perfected. Unlike everything on my PC’s hard drive, in my notebooks, scrawled across journals… Yep, I’m discouraged. Or maybe ‘discouraged’ is a misleading word. I suppose it’s just me being honest with myself. Because honestly, I’m nothing special. Honestly, the grade on my last composition wasn’t the best. Internet bloggers show more promise. Honestly… who am I kidding?