I know I’m a pretty good writer.
Please forgive me if that seems like an insufferable thing to say, but modesty, especially false modesty, has never been my thing.
Writing, on the other hand, is my thing. Always has been. My style may not be the stuff of Nobel-prize winning tomes but nevertheless, the compulsion to write has been a part of me for so long I can’t imagine what it’s like to live without it.
If I am not writing, it means I am not well. No matter how difficult and distracting my life becomes, my ability to write, and to write in what I consider my trademark style, is a testament to my mental and emotional health.
Strange then, that I would gladly see my keyboard struck dumb if only I could sing.
Because I can’t sing.
There I said it. Despite an abundance of musical talent in my family, I am a terrible singer. No matter how many times I have fortified myself with red wine and sang around a campfire or harmonized at a party or even (just the one time, praise God) taken to a coffeehouse stage with my guitar, I remain a terrible singer.
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