You wouldn't know I have writer's block from this babbling blog post.

I'm a writer. I just need some inspiration.

I have plenty of thoughts. I can ramble on about any subject to no end, so much so that I often forget where (or why) I started the conversation. I just drove across the country by myself. I should have a million things to say. I took a thousand photos and, supposedly, picture is worth a thousand words, so why haven't I been able to string together one thousand of my own words?

When people ask what I do, I tell them that I'm a writer. And I am -- I was a magazine editor for four years. I wrote plenty and can describe Justin Bieber's hair with many intriguing adjectives (but I'll spare you). I'll start stories or outlines here and there, but I haven't finished them. I have a couple of stories that I wrote for Fiction I in college that I'd love to turn into full-length novels, but I haven't. Why not? Am I scared? Have I convinced myself that I was too busy when I was working three jobs in New Jersey or that I can't do anything on the West Coast until I'm settled in? Are these the same procrastinating excuses I use when I don't want to go to the gym and think the yogurt shop next door looks much better than an elliptical (trust me, it does).

I spent two hours in a Borders today that's going out of business. I started with 15 books in my hand, but I whittled it down to two (Now I know why Borders is going out of business - an Amazon.com search made me realize I could get half of the books for all of $3 online. Sorry, Borders.). I love book stores and libraries. I find hints of inspiration in them, even when I don't write down a single line for months after. Joan Didion is brilliant. Tom Perrota is hilarious. Chuck Palahniuk is insane. How are they inspired? What makes them want to sit down and write? Are they real writers, wired differently than me?

I hope that's not the case. I want to be a writer. I want to sit down and write a book. And no way in hell will I let that moron of a barely successful nature writer who visited Ithaca my senior year be right when he said I was the only one in his lecture class whose name didn't have an author's ring to it (Listen, Mister So-Important-I-Can't-Even-Remember-Your-Name-Author-Man, as fun as it must be to write about how many rings line the stumps of every dead oak tree in your backyard all day, most people have a pen name anyway. Feel free to go trip over a twig.)

Maybe this blog will be just what I need to get rid of my years-long writers block. Or maybe I'm just trying to give you a babbling blog to read. Or maybe I will finally really write when I'm settled into Los Angeles - at least, once I've bought a desk. Or maybe I'll come up with a thousand excuses instead of a thousand words.

Or maybe I can look at it this way - at least I finally wrote something again.