So why haven't I spent so many years in the writing of my life that I know all the crooks and crannies of personality that this isn't second nature to me, or better yet, first nature?
After about fourteen and even on into my twenties, I cried my heart out to my diary. I found it unfulfilling. The Catholic Church said treat others like you want to be treated and voila, my mom showed up out from behind the stack of laundry and in an angry voice demanding her hairbrush back. I began to see what she needed to make her happy. Same for my husband and others, I see them and try to fix as needed.
To me, I always thought, yes, I wish to be a writer, just not yet, I need to know more. My search is usually outwardly directed--I know me.
But a friend of mine keeps trying to psychoanalyze me for myself since I apparently won't do it. I don't lack sensuality, or thoughts, or new ideas or in depth examination so much as knowing emotions hurt and I don't like pain. Now I am busy on a memoir that takes me into what I thought then, what I think now and more topped off with a healthy dose of noseeums, gnats, biting flies (deer flies?).
Nothing of me is static except my sitting and my books and my spending. This is enough