I'm a writer, so of course I can't write...

I’m a writer, so of course I can’t write; of course I’m having trouble getting started.... Eldest rhethorical rhoutine in the hbhookh....Uh. Sorry. I only mean that I don’t yet know quite what tone to take, where to pitch it, as I always insist on saying at the outset & ever repeatedly return to, when I write about writing, or when I write at all, it would seem. For here I am, again, talking tone, taking a tone, which is indeed the problem of where to pitch it, of receiver, audience, lecteur, doppelganger, interlocutor, an other.

Writing a blog, or attempting to, about one’s life or one’s views or one’s self, to be read by an unknown number of unknown readers–at least at first, as now for me–is a little like trying to write a love letter to a complete stranger–or a complete strangler, for that matter. I say "I’m a writer" like I am one, like it means something about my specialness or my history or something (& maybe it does, but that does not necessarily negate the point I’m about to get to); to say "I’m a writer" only claims that one writes, is writing, has written. Has struggled with writing. Has sailed through writing. Has flown, fallen, written.

I’m a writer. So, of course, I can’t write. I can’t write for preparing to write. I can’t write for figuring out how to write. I can’t write for meaning to write. / Write to meaning for write can’t I. If I can mean what I write, can’t I write what I mean? I know what it means to write. Do I know what I mean to write? Is it mean to write? Is it right to mean? Mean to mean? Right to write? What am I? Who is it? Where is You?