Words On Paper

I am well known for procrastinating. I'm full of good intentions but they somehow get lost in translation. In fact, there are approximately 15 blogs littered through cyber space in which I have left one or two posts to wither away. I absolutely promise to try really hard not to leave this one unattended.
I was speaking to a friend recently, who shares my love of writing, about my desire to be a published writer versus my literary snobbery at producing anything less than high-brow. I expressed my horror at the thought of being known as the woman who writes trashy chick lit. When, in actual fact, I should be expressing my horror at the thought of my having produced absolutely nothing.
After this conversation, I went away and thought about the barriers I create in order to prevent myself writing; I don't have time, I'm tired, Nobody will read it anyway, I'm rubbish, I'm boring. . . and I suddenly realised that I felt rather justified in my excuses. I felt able to feign a dramatic pose (you know the one - the whole 'back of the hand on the forehead' thing) and announce proudly that 'I am a tortured artist!'
Pretty pathetic, huh?
So, here I am. Writing. Nothing high-brow, nothing of consequence; just my incongruous thoughts. Words on paper.