I always find that when I want to write something my mind goes blank.  It's almost as if the mere thought of opening myself up, letting others in, it stops me, blanks my mind.  I haven't always been this way.  When I was a child I would write poems and stories, gladly sharing with everyone in my life.  At the tender age of 5 I announced to my family that I wanted to be a published author.  And my family, for the most part, has always been supportive.

So why, you might ask, do I have such a problem writing and sharing now?

It is a strange dichotomy that supports individuality and conformity in the same breath.  For every supportive statement, there would be three or more pushing me to hid the very things fueling my writing.  Add in a sensitive, yet stubborn nature, and you create someone who feels every breath will be judged, every step questioned, yet can not ever truly hide who she really is.  When your every waking moment seems to land on someone's razor, you learn to put as little as possible in harms way.

And now, now I dream of a more creative life and try to pull myself back to that child full of worlds.