Who am I? Why do I write?

I don’t remember a time not writing. First letters, first words, first sentences, first cards to Mommy, letters to Grandpa, stories about vacations, pink pubescent diaries, obligatory poetry, reports with the circles and arrows of proper citations, thesis papers, newspaper articles, “just the facts ma’am” reports to the boss. Journals line the shelves of the bookcase in my room.

Now, I live in a home with a writer. Our words fill the house, beat by discordant beat.  The tension of our existence reverberates against the walls.  Her: the night owl extrovert.   Me: the sunrise introvert.   Her words: soft, lyrical, renaissance metaphors of castles built on sand sung with the incessant clacky clack on a cheap plastic keyboard. My words: raw, terse, cutting, emotion filled cadence of drum beats marching line after line and sung over the scratch-ity scratch of pencil to paper.

I, like many other writers I know, self-depreciate with a vengeance. We edit unmercifully with angst over every word, every sentence.  We procrastinate. Scared to start and scared to finish. I used to think my perfectionism was a strength. Now I’m not so sure. No, I am sure. Perfectionism stalls me with the fear of vulnerability and ancient shame of not-good-enough. Perfectionism prevents me from moving forward by letting go and proclaiming to myself, “more than good enough”. Begone you, shame and fear have no power here. Yet they still exist in the shadows of my mind where I write under the radar of scrutiny and vulnerability.

Why do I write?  I write to ease the demons. A story in my soul, a story to be told…