I feel a story creeping around in my head again. It usually happens when I reach critical mass emotionally. I lay in bed at night, playing out the dialogues in my head. Anger, joy, frustration - whatever I feel in my own life becomes a conversation between fictious characters, and pretty soon, I need to see it in print. It's like excorcising my demons in a way. I can look at everything I've ever written, and tell you exactly what was happening in my personal life to motivate it. (But don't ask, because a girl has to have a few secrets!) I wouldn't call my writing autobiographical, but it is an outlet.

Is this why I don't feel comfortable pursuing it professionally? Because writing is actually just an extension of me, nothing more. I'm afraid that if you look too closely at what I write, you'll see it's not particularly special. It's not founded in some great literary education, and there's no lyrical genius behind these words. It is what it is, because I am what I am.

Which brings me to the question, just what do I think I am? And I'm not talking about my roles-- because my first instinct is to answer, "I'm a mom. And a wife. And a friend." I have to go a little farther than that. I want to know what's beneath that, what's under my skin?

Who am I when I'm in a room all by myself? Because that's where my writing takes me-- to a room all by myself. I'm not Mother or Wife or Friend when I'm there. I'm just The Author. And I guess I'm afraid that that isn't good enough sometimes, and I'm afraid to put it out there for judgement.

I dunno. I'll have to mull this one over a bit. But not now, because I am sleepy and everything is terribly dramatic when the body is tired. Time for bed, time for dialogues to bounce around in my head again, until sleep finally wins the night.

G'nite.
Sleep tight.
And so forth and so on.