Let's talk about my stories—not me

I can write for 16 hours straight all weekend long, churning out 10k words a day. No problem. I can write a 90,000k word novel in two and a half weeks. I can pen and then edit project after project with ease. But the moment I have to construct three sentences about who I am, I am stumped!

I can write about anything—but me. I imbue so much of myself into my stories that there isn’t much left, and what remains are the parts I don’t want anyone to see, not even myself.

i wish I could go back in time to a point in history when we didn’t need to be salesmen as well as creators. But self-promotion is the name of the game when it comes to being a writer in 2025. Still, I just don’t know what to say. That I’m addicted to words the same way others are to food and drugs? That I would rather lose both of my limbs but never my hands? That writing is my therapy and my fantasy fix, and without it, I don’t know if I could go on living? That it is how I survive a day job as a professional technical writer as well as a lifetime with catharsis embedded in my soul?

Bottom line: the only thing I have found that gives me the energy to sojourn on is writing.

So, I promise to do what I can to share myself with you but I’m pretty sure I suck at this self-promotion stuff. Let me ramble on about what influences my plots, and give in-depth character analysis including detailed horoscopes (which I can’t to share!) Let me talk with you about your favorite romances and we might even bring up the classics (that have greatly influenced me.!) But when I think too hard about who I am and where I’ve come from, I feel less and less likely to succeed at this. I already have a cacophony of voices telling me I can’t do this. I don’t need to awaken another one! And I really don’t have the time to sit and self-actualize.

Because.

I have another book to write.