I don't want to be a Basher.

"Tellers of stories with ink on paper, not that they matter any more, have been either swoopers or bashers. Swoopers write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way. Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn’t work. Bashers go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one. When they’re done they’re done." -- Kurt Vonnegut

All my life, writing has been a source of agony. First, comes the absolutely perfect title. Then the first sentence must be completely right before I can move to the next sentence and start the whole paralyzing, nit-picky process over again. On and on and on. I cannot tell you how many papers have been handed in late, and a few times never, because I was stymied by the title. The title. Never even made it to the first sentence.

Also? Writing makes my body ache. I'm serious. I'm sitting here, thinking about what I want to write, what I want to talk about next, where I was going with all this and deep in my arms I can feel this... this... it's like a constant electric current running from my elbow down along my forearm to my fingers. Not a sharp zing, mind you, but a low humming hurt. Perhaps it's just that my muscles are tense and anxious, waiting to strike the keys the very second the sentence I want frees itself from the jumbled mess of my thoughts. I really don't know.

Of course, none of this would be a problem if I could just find a way to not spend all day thinking about things to write: Short stories. Poems. A memoir. A blog. It's ridiculous how much of my thoughts are consumed with writing and how few of those thoughts are extracted and actually put down on the page.

Obviously, being a Basher is not working for me.

Hello.

When I was in elementary school, I had a penpal who lived in Australia. Her name was Natalie. She sent me vegemite and a photograph of kangaroos standing around her backyard. I sent her 50 black rubber bracelets and the cassette single for "Walk Like An Egyptian". It was nice having someone to talk to about random stuff, so I guess that's where you come in, People of the Internets: I can't find Natalie's address, and even if I could, I doubt she lives there anymore.