What a daunting task it is, to begin. And here I am, at the very beginning of something hoping to stumble on some combination of success, catharsis, and an artistic expression in which I can take pride.
In the webbed corners of my mind I secretly consider myself a writer, but face the same agonies as any author: the hatred of writing. The constant reconsiderations, rereadings, deletions, consultations of the thesaurus, and trying to find balance amidst that fine line of following the rules and making up my own (though I prefer the latter). AS with any creative pursuit, self-evaluation (and the discovery of imperfection) is a frightening inevitability--even more so when looking through the window of creation. I have wondered, more than a few times, "did that come from my mind?" It is both alarming and awesome to be able to surprise yourself--to discover an almost impossible incongruence between the personslity that manifests your creations, and the personality that drives to work.
A rampant fear of myriad and vast UNimportances has fueled an inordinate (and quite frankly, embarrassing) hiatus from my writing. I would like to consider myself a writer again--in the forbidding judgment of the real world, and not just in my mind.
