Hmm...

I always find it interesting whenever I begin to write here. What do I wish to say? What do I want people to know about me and my day? What I wish to discover about myself? Am I inhibited because I know people are reading? Do I hide things I wish not to be questioned? Why do I even do this anymore?

I wish I could write freely. Just.. whatever comes to mind... whatever gets typed out first. "Flush out the crap," as Christa used to say. But for some reason there is a critic within me. A mean, nasty critic constantly demanding the best; perfection. Try as I might, I can't escape her tauntings. You want to be a writer, don't you? Writer's don't write like that. Use bigger verbs. More mature adjectives! A middle schooler could have wrote this... You're going to starve.

The scariest thing, though, is the voice itself. It's not my mother. A teacher. Someone who I look up to. A critic. It's... me. I am my own worst enemy. I am my toughest critic. Perhaps that's why I try to correct other peoples' works. To know that, indeed, I do have some working knowledge of the English language and mechanics. To prove to this self-editor that I can write. That I'm meant to write. That I must write.

Am I crazy?

I'm so lucky to have the support I do. Friends. Family. Loved ones. Or, rather, one. I'm lucky that not just one... but many people have seen some small glimmer of light within me; even when all I see is darkness and error. That I "talk like a book" and often get more enjoyment from listening to other people talk, their vocabulary and mannerisms than hearing myself. That I can easily loose myself in a book and never want to return to reality again.

I have to remember why I started writing.

This critic must be silenced.

I gotta jump.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.