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I’ve maintained since the advent of blog-dom, that I would never cave to this harmless but unnecessary hobby (more on that thought some other day.) Yet here I am, voluntarily committing myself to writing something, anything, to make this snippet of space of online real-estate a BLOG and not a page with a pretty header. My doubts are still more clear than my motives, but the most base reason is quite simply:
I love to write.

Yeah, I get it. You, me and everyone we know. Writers are a dime a dozen, and people who THINK they can write are even more plentiful. I have no illusions as to which category I belong.

Writing, as a process, is so intensely personal and intimate that I doubt any two people in this world would describe it exactly the same. For me, it has always been painful in varying levels of intensity. To produce a typical collegiate essay on an assigned topic=good hard knock on the funny bone. A creative writing paper about something personal, or a topic I’m passionate about= a tumble down the stairs, no broken bones. Anything written entirely in Spanish=violent high speed car accident.

No amount of coaching by well-meaning teachers or professors has lessened the torturous amount of time and mental energy I waste writing “my way.” No hastily penned first drafts followed by many subsequent improvements for this cat, that would be too easy. I write like a steamroller: crawling along at an obscenely slow pace, angering the operator and everyone else in the area, but leaving a pristine and beautiful finished product in its wake. The flood of relief that gushes from my throbbing head down stiff neck and shoulders immediately following the completion of a piece makes one almost forget how much I hated writing it, and the warm inky smelling paper copies give me warm butterflies…until the next time.

Writing is my dialysis for the mind and soul, it filters out the depressed-bad-raging-heartsick-confused in me and leaves me calmer, clearer and empty of the nasty negativity that now exists solely as Bic ink pressed into flattened wood pulp. And for that, I’ll keep on steamrolling.

How do YOU write, dear reader?