may 21, 2012

I had fought so long with the artist in me. She clawed at the rationalist's subtle anxieties, stripping away the neuroses and filling the empty space with unwavering calm. I had always thrived on my stresses, thought they motivated me somehow - made me more productive. But as I sat that morning, piles of ignored work atop my desk, scribbling furiously in the crisp pages of my leatherbound journal, I realized this artist was an integral part of me. The truth hit me: deep down, I was not just a bundle of nerves with a deadline; there was more to me. Somehow, that tightly-wound core I had always reveled in having had become unwound... and in that moment, I was a writer with a story to tell.