Writing is, in many ways, similar to performing. The differences are what stand out immediately, of course. But the commonalities, though subtle, are difficult to ignore.
When I write, you see only as much of me as I’m willing to reveal. Using my words, I can paint a picture for you of the person I want you to see. I give away bits of who I am, but only at my discretion.
The same can be said of daily life, I suppose, but the effect is more extreme when a paper and pen stand between us. You can’t see the pieces of me revealed in how I interact with others, my facial expressions, or the way I carry myself. You might glean some insight into who this girl is, but I wonder how much your understanding would be increased, were we face to face.
Just the same, this is the life I’ve chosen. The black Papermate I hold is my tool for communicating, not only about my desires and dreams, but about what excites me, the things that invoke my passion.
How much of me is revealed through that is an ongoing mystery.