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Summertime Cynicism

Sometimes I forget why, in the past, I have loved to write. I forget the satisfaction that comes with a perfectly discovered metaphor or an impeccably accurate description. I forget the spell that carefully chosen words can cast over me. I forget that writing can make me feel valuable and certain and powerful.

Each spring and summer I experience the same struggle: wrestling with my self-image and contending to not compare my body to picturesque women clad in bikinis and daisy dukes. I am nearly thirty but am guilty of the same thought process I had at twelve years old: if I can't control my appetites and my body, what's the point? In other words: if I can't be the best version of myself that I can envision, why even try?

Both my body and creative pursuits, i.e. writing, have been fodder for anxiety as of late. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of publishing a book of my own. For the past few months or so, I can't seem to believe that anything I have to say …

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