Writing has always been cathartic to me.A bittersweet balm on the gaping wound that presented itself as life. I guess I was born with a flair for melodrama. Not that surprising for a child whose grandmother sang Italian opera.
I wanted to be Linda Ronstadt when I was four or five .Walking around the house like a miniature drunk, stumbling into the walls -I couldn’t see where I was going with an album cover over my face.
Now I wonder if that was merely child’s play or preparation for true adulting. In the way that as adults, we pretend to be anything but who we really are.
Why do we feel that our authentic selves are meant to be hidden? Am I the only one who thinks this way?
Writing turned from my most beloved friend to an imaginary one. When I try to write, it sounds hollow. The only time I am my authentic self is when I let my thoughts explode on paper.
That is the goal I set for myself today. To let my constant churning find it’s home without the inner screaming voice of criticism.