So I've been blogging for a year. August 20, 2002 saw me post my first entry. Has anything changed since then?

Much and, at the same time, very little.

I'm more comfortable with calling myself a "writer." The measure of success I've achieved--though still very small (a handful of poems published in a student literary journal, that one play produced)--has helped.

It hasn't entirely dispelled my fears. I still have misgivings about any apparent ability--the doubt often creeping in when a particular line here or turn of phrase there seems a little thorny. "So trite," "unoriginal"--I accuse myself. How to make the journey worthwhile, I wonder? I manage to recover my confidence most times, even if the recovery is impermanent.

I don't suppose I'd like total security, though. Security. That's a word that makes me uncomfortable. I need flux to feel alive.

And in honour of completing my first year of blogging (light-weight I am still), here's a cross-section of my thoughts (thanks to Becky for the idea!)--a peak at Natalie, neuroses and all:

- Semantics had me worried.

- Work had me down.

- Even early on, I wondered how honest I was being on this blog.

- I was the Ass of Buridan.

- I tried to work through post-break-up complications. And again here.

- Bouts of pseudo-intellectualism abounded. But that's another list on its own.

- Canada/U.S. relations pissed me off. Time and time again.

- Patriotism did, too.

- I conjured up the courage to post one of my poems.

- I answered the question "Are you hot?"

- I became consumed by my First World guilt.

- I railed against the war.

- And I enjoyed doing it all.*

See Portrait of the Woman as a Young Artist for details.