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On Paper
The Dime
I find it very difficult to write about myself in an accessible way. I can pretty up my words into a semi-mythical honey dream of a story, or hold myself up to the light to examine for flaws. But in practical terms, I recoil in terror at the idea of having to explain myself plainly. Like in a biography, or on a resume.

Or in a letter to prospective birth mothers.

I'm charming (when I try and I often don't have the social energy). I'm witty (although it most often manifests as caustic and droll). I'm smart (of a certain variety of intelligence that is shared by many people). I like stuff and things. I'm 5'10" with blue eyes and skin the color of old candles. I'm a collection of caveats, facts and self-deprecating poetry. What's not to love?

An audience of one is easy to please. The sound of my own words bouncing off of each other needs satisfy no one else, and so I am free to be obtuse. An audience of two, and I can adjust. I fret and pine and worry, but I adjust the sight of my scope to a new target. Beyond two, and things get difficult. And writing for the unknown audience is much different than writing for the audience that may never be.

Eventually, I've got to suck it up. I need the job, or the deadline has come, or my husband is getting mad that I can't seem to get anything together for our adoption website. And so something gets churned out that I am less than happy with, because it lacks the magic that makes my fingers type without thought, and echoes out to shores of future me to smile at. I'm not much, on paper.

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I think I know that feel...sometimes the world expects so little.

Right? It surprises me to know what is deemed acceptable, even as I know a creative novel for a resume isn't really reasonable.

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