I have a feeling that Sylvia Plath and I could have been friends...

If either of us had ever gotten over our introverted-ness and chatted.:) We clearly have similar levels of cynicism. I've started reading the journals of Sylvia Plath on my lunchbreak at work and I find myself nodding in agreement with her assessments of college, the world and the people in it. Sometimes she says something I thought I was alone in thinking and states it so perfectly. I understand her insecurity and her inner battle to understand and appreciate herself as a writer (something I can identify with as an artist). I know her life ultimately ended in a very depressing way (I'm grateful for my faith, which gives me hope and optimism), but it's been so interesting to read something so personal and open that I can identify with. Her journals are incredibly honest and beautifully written. I still have quite a bit to read, but I'm definitely hooked.

"...Why am I obssessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-- an excuse for any social failure-- so I can say, "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing." Or is it an excuse for wanting to be alone and meditate alone, not having to brave a group of women? (Women in numbers have always disturbed me.) Do I like to write? Why? About what?..."
~Sylvia Plath