On Long Spans on Silence

I once promised myself that I would never write one sentence in my journal unless I really had something to say. There is nothing more irksome than reading works formed by an author who wanted to write, but had no passion to drive his pen-- even if the author was oneself. Years ago I vowed that I wouldn't be that author.
I try to follow that principle in blogging as well, but I suppose I sometimes carry it too far.

I often write the least when I have the most to say.

Part of the reason, I'm sure, is a feeling of insuffiency to truly express what I want so desperately to get across. I've told my friends before that I live in frustration of never really feeling as though I've communicated exactly what I desire to, no matter how many ways I've explained the same thing, no matter how many angles from which I've aproached the same point. This applies to conversation as well as to writing.
Whether it is my side of an important discussion, an email to a friend, a paper for a class, an entry on my blog, or even a sermon note, I rarely conclude it believing that my precise sentiments have been expressed in the best way possible. I usually resort to quoting others whose words come closer to the mark than mine.
In this case, I will leave you with those of Anne Bradstreet:

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain...
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.

--from The Author to Her Book