Meanwhile, while I'm fumbling to get out a sentence or two, some people are writing and sharing marvelous and thoughtful reviews about they books they've read. I admire this talent. I'm also jealous of it. Why can't I seem to get the hang of it?
It isn't that I can't write in general—I've made it through more schooling than I like to think about, and for the most part professors, instructors, and the like thought my papers were good. No, it's more a lack of confidence, I think.
I'm unsure that my opinions are valid and not completely worthless. I'm unsure about whether I can stand by them if someone disagreed—even if it was just a difference of opinions... common enough in the reading world. Not everybody is going to find the same books enjoyable or even worthy of their time. Sometimes, I'm even unsure of what my own feelings about the book in question even are.
I've always been this way... as a child I had trouble telling my parents just how sick I was. They'd give me a one to ten scale and I'd hesitate, trying desperately to think of an answer that just wasn't there. Sometimes, I feel just that way about books. Okay, so I obviously didn't love it. I didn't hate it either. But...
And there we go. My problem... out in the open for all to see. An embarrassing insecurity that extends even to my passion of reading. Sad.
Anyway, I keep hoping this blog will help in that area. Unfortunately, I have yet to be brave enough to try. Instead, I stick to my one or two lines on eHarlequin... letting all the other reviews mask my empty comments.