yes. writing is very much like running naked through life without concern for who may or may not be watching or wearing clothes. (and now i have forgotten where i'm going with this, but i'll push on all the same.) i have a sense that we are all pretending, in some way, to be who we're not. pleasing our parents, friends or lovers. our bosses. masking our naked reality.

but when i write, i am not pretending or pleasing anybody but myself. i do not know why i do this, what the urge is, what it means. i can only say that i wish to live as a writer. bold and authentic and free. i aspire to be the woman i am writing, though they are still very far apart.

i must admit that i have written six or so blogs in the past few weeks that i didn't publish. halfway through writing i began to feel self conscious, like standing naked in a room of fully clothed people. when the writing is not flowing, i feel the need to cover up and run away. perhaps, though, there is something to showing up to the page anyway, even when it is not working.

i must admit that i've been hiding. trying to figure out why the creative well dried up; but, alas, i am not God. i hope the end of the trickling is upon us.