Going Back and Back and Back and...

I've decided one of the reasons I don't write very often here is because whenever I get an idea for a post, a thread of thought, a glimmer of something I could begin to be passionate about, I think that with all the blogs out there, it's probably already been covered--and much better than I could.
In the 70's when I was making my way through childhood, the fishbowl didn't seem so full. There were voices everywhere, but it didn't seem so hard to be heard if you wanted to. I know now that there were still plenty of sets of vocal chords out there, all trying to make their particular points of view known to the world but all I really have to go on is my perception then and it's as if the aquarium has suddenly become so crowded that not only can I make my little cry audible to the world, I can barely hear it myself. Some days I think I have no opinion or thought to begin with.
Then I begin to think about why many writers write--because the enjoy the process, or, if they don't enjoy it, they find that they have to just to feel alive. About ten years ago I set out to get an English degree because I thought it would make me a writer. Since I was in grade school I wanted to write and when I had to decide what to study in college it just felt natural to study English. People who know me might find that strange and say, "What about music? That's all you ever talk about!" I'd have to agree with them because there are a lot of things I'm passionate about and I've tried over and over again to get away from this insane dream of becoming a writer. But I always come back to it--not, actually, to the act of writing, but to the subject of writing and my becoming a writer. I know this doesn't make sense, but this is my blog and it doesn't have to.
The point is that I always come back and one day, I think, I will actually do it.