I am my own worst censor and critic.

I don't think that I'll ever be the great writer that I want to be. I'll never write a novel that leaves people feeling like I've just taken them to a new place. I don't think I'll ever accomplish it.

I want to, but I won't. No one knows this about me, but I censor myself before I even get a word down on page. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's a fear of being judged. Maybe it's a fear of being accepted. Who knows?

You're probably wondering what made me come to this realization. Well, this I will tell you.

I was riding home on the c-train the other day and an old woman was sitting across from me. The sun was coming in through the windwo and she was wearing a pendant that made the light dance into my eyes. Naturally I followed the source of the glare and found myself looking at her cleavage. It reminded me of the hills of zabriski point in death valley california.

That was the only way to describe the wrinkled tributaries that ran from her collarbone down into the darkening valley of her plunging necklin.

I thought it was the perfect description, but I have since wondered what people would say. Would they think that I am a freak for checking out an old woman's cleavage? Or am I more of a freak to have contemplated it long enough to come up with a simile about it?

I guess the choice is yours on how you want to view me.