Permission

I'm a writer. Always have been. Through elementary school, high school, and college, consistently and openly. Across my waterbed - or, in college my extra-long twin - a fresh pad of paper (8 1/2 x 11 spiral-top, Cambridge series with the deep navy cover) was always nearby. Words tumbled onto it - I couldn't get them out of my brain fast enough. In the fifth grade, a behind the scenes look into the personal lives of those involved with the Boston Tea Party. In college, the paper became the orange blue skies of Arizona sunsets, the brown concrete of everyday gas stations.

I've always told stories. Let me rephrase - I've always written stories. I've never had the gift to verbalize what I write. I feel more at home with a piece of paper and a pen - my words clip together more gracefully than if uttered from my tripping tongue. (I used to think that just because I liked to be the center of attention, and could hold court appropriately, that I should be able to speak as well as I write. Now, I leave the story telling to people like Remi, Monica and Bettina while I scribble phrases on loose slips of scraps and restaurant napkins.)

The blank piece of paper has always been a gift. Sometimes a daunting one, but appropriate for me. (Perhaps this is why I'm fascinated with stationary?) the anticipation of the first word - the magic of an introductory sentence - sweet as first sex.

I've avoided my writing for so long - worried that the words would betray my inadequate self. Obsessing, even. I'd convey to others this desire to write - profess my authoring tendencies - and then catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror (or a nearby window) and tell my hopeful reflection that I couldn't write. That I am talentless and used. That the spirit of writing no longer slammed through my veins and that I should shout "give!" at the top of my lungs and retreat to reading and simpleton duties that I could master.

No longer.

I've found something inside. A loud pulsing urge to write no matter what. Do I know that I'm talentless? Yes. But the real question, the question that needs to be confronted and chewed out from time to time, asks me if I am coward enough to care. The coward wonders what other people think and folds the words away into secret crevices - if I don't write the words, others can't judge.

So - to others - judge if you must. But I'm giving myself permission for my passion.

I'm here to write.