I found this picture and it describes me. Everything about this is me at my core – without the influences of other people or social norms or worries of money, this is who I am. I’m not always a bitch, I’m not always a workaholic. I’m not always entertaining someone (however subtle or obvious my efforts). But I am always inside my own head. And I am the most alive when I am alone with my thoughts, a pen, and a piece of paper. And at these times, I’m everything you wouldn’t think me to be: I’m introverted, I’m quiet, I’m pensive.
Many people don’t know this about me. Many people have no idea I write anything – this blog, poems, tiny blurbs of fiction that go nowhere. Many people don’t know about my collection of rejection letters from literary journals or my books of scribbled pages full of crossed out adjectives and added semi-colons. Many people know only the surface me. The surface being the part of a person you can make snap judgments about. The part of a person that is perceived from stereotypes and generalizations.
But most of us have a little more to us. A spark somewhere in us that makes us something special, something different. A dream we will continually chase.