The Writer Caged Inside

I have a prison deep inside me. With deep dark walls covered in slimy moss. In this prison I stuff the very part of me that is me. The writer that took control when I was just eight years old; composing through me "The Goo-Boos' Village".

It has tried throughout the years to claim its rightful place in my life as resident author, journalist, editor,.poet, and muse. But instead of welcoming its presence, I have allowed a few rejection slips for mid-teen writing cultivate fear, laziness, and good old fashioned writer's block.

I'm a copier; I always have been. My mother used to be able to tell who I been visiting or talking on the phone with by the way I sounded afterwards. My writing style is no different. Give me a hundred pages of Lemony Snickett, and I writing will be running from Count Olaf right alongside the poor Baudelaires. Then give me the fresh, surprising joy of reading my friend's blog Ironic Daises, and her deep, quirky perspective rubs off on me.

Which one is me? Do I have my own voice? Can I really write? Will I be fearless enough to truly realized that the only failure is not trying? And will I realize that I really shouldn't blog under the influence of Nyquil?

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