Were I to step into a confessional, I'd hardly know where to begin. Do I talk about my fanatical obsession with things Japanese, diving into the details of Shinsengumi uniforms while I play-act bits of the Meiji Restoration using my fingers as puppets? Maybe I talk about my son, and how I worry that I've done too many things wrong on this single parenting lark, even though there's nothing I can do to make his father grow up. Or I could discuss the job, which exists to make sure bills are paid, but as each year passes I think it grinds a little more of me into the dust of hopelessness.
Perhaps, because this introduction is for a writing community, I could make confessions about the words I put to paper or screen. I could say how I fear to put things out there to be read, but how deeply I thrill just knowing something has been read. Even feedback of correction is precious, because someone has read my words. I suppose, if I wanted, I could mention how sometimes writing makes me feel insane, and how other times it gives me something to do with the insanity of having tiny people living their own lives inside my mind, and how often I envy those lives that they have.
In reality, though, I'd say nothing at all, because fear locks the words inside my throat. It makes me grateful that my fingers can still find the keys, and that the screen reflects a small eloquence that my tongue doesn't possess.
Here, I can say, "Hi. My name's Briar, and I'm a writer."