Well, it’s the middle of June and this blog is about three months old now…it’s about time I introduced myself, don’t you think?
I’ll admit, I’ve been avoiding this section. I have no problem at all talking at length about pretty much every other topic on earth, but when the microscope gets turned back to me, my immediate reaction is to deflect. It’s not that I’m not introspective…it’s that I find it so strange and awkward trying to summarize and encapsulate myself. The whole point of this blog, this creative space, is to celebrate the redefining of oneself. What’s to say this write-up won’t be different in six months?
So I’ll give you the facts that aren’t likely to change.
All my life, I’ve dreamed of being a writer. But after college, with “real life” responsibilities weighing on me, I let the habit fall by the wayside, claiming I didn’t have the time for it. In truth, I think I was just scared. I’m not getting any younger, though, and this paralysis has started weighing heavily on me. The thought of not even trying scares me more than the thought of failure. I have to know – can I do this? This blog is my first step to answering that question.
And going hand in hand with that, I’m a reader. That’s the only thing that has truly defined me from the earliest age. Being without a book makes me feel unsettled, incomplete. Reading is my first, truest love, and that, I know, will never change.
I’m a weird mix of dichotomies. I’m the girliest girl you’ll ever meet, all perfume and cashmere and high heels, but in everything else, my tastes run toward the masculine – the books I read, the subjects I’m interested in, even the alcohol I drink. It’s appropriate then that, though I work in a profession where I’m surrounded by women (or, perhaps, because of it?), I prefer the company of men. I may be diminutive, but I’m harder, more abrasive, more cynical than my outward appearance would lead you to believe. I love the raucous cacophony of a rock concert, but when I’m home, I surround myself with quiet. I crave cities and the abundance of culture they have to offer, but I intentionally eschew them in favor of a somnolent country life. I seek out adventure, yet despise change. I’m a homebody who craves travel and suffers from wanderlust. I love and hate with equal passion. I accept that my past has formed me but I refuse to let it define me. I know exactly who I am, and yet I am constantly surprising myself.
I am redefinable.