I'm the creative ego that lives within the filled pages of your literary works. I'm waiting, hidden as the blank pages causing intimidation. I take on many forms, but the writer's voice tries to break through just the same. You have to search deep within the writing to determine if she has truly escaped or if I have cleverly disguised her presence.
Sometimes she gives you a clue when she writes from the heart, then her true inner-self comes out from under the layers of hidden walls she has carefully built for herself. Sometimes my cloaks of insecurity and lack of confidence is revealed in the mish-mosh that falls within her pages.
Who is she really? She is someone who cares deeply. Someone who can witness another person's pain and feel immense compassion. Someone who finds beauty all around her and knows what touches her heart and makes her come alive. She has searched for the internal meaning to, "What am I supposed to do with my life?" with the answer echoing back--"Use the gifts you were given!"
I then find myself being less and less able to control the pages and begin to grow silent. She is like a butterfly emerging from the cocoon. She no longer needs to rely on me. She now has a voice of her own.
She refuses to wait to try her wings, unable to control the urge to try something new. She is learning to master the ability to focus on the process involved in creating instead of concentrating on the outcome. She lives everyday doing what is important to her. "If it really matters, make the time!"
She now looks at life with a new vision. I know someday soon, very soon, I will disappear and only her strong, confident voice will emerge victorious to be heard. She has learned to let go of pain and doubt and welcome her creative side with open arms.