(Um, I'm going to stop that now. I can feel your look.)

I dunno. D. was around. Even though I haven't written specifically about him in a while, I thought it would feel strange, writing while he was right there. I need my space. Yeah, that's it. Space.

I think it gets back to the whole "This journal sucks, I don't want anyone to see it who I might have to answer to" thing. It's especially hard, dealing with D., because he knew me back when I thought I might be a writer. He just won't believe me when I now say I'm not that good. He thinks he's being supportive and encouraging, but I'm trying really hard to accept the fact that I can't write, and when he says I'm good, I keep wanting to believe him. Damn him.

Even now, that last paragraph sounds fake. "Oh, suuure," I imagine the Biographers saying. "Now she's pretending she can't write. False modesty? Reverse psychology? A cry for attention? Well, if she doesn't think she can write, why is she bothering to keep a journal?"

A journal isn't really writing. Ask anyone.

Yeah, whatever.

You know, I'm really starting to worry about all the conversations I have with myself.

Don't change the subject.

I'm serious. Is this normal?

Who cares? It's sincere, right? This is an accurate representation of your mind. You have conflicting ideas, so you write them out as two separate "voices."

Well, maybe, but it sure looks insane.

Bah. It's eccentric, perhaps, but the fact that you can recognize that it's not normal proves you're ok. If you weren't aware of how freaklike this seems, we'd probably be in trouble.

You know, I feel a lot better. Thanks. One more thing, though. These pronouns always end up seeming odd. We, um, I mean I, no wait, both halves of the dialogue refer to, um, the person known as Ana as "me" "we" or "you" pretty much randomly. Any suggestions?

I'm sorry, Ana. You know what the music means. Our time is up.

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