Why I write

I ran. Fast. Out of breath. Lungs bursting. Legs hitting the earth. I thudded up the path, around the corner, right up the stairs and reached the door. I flung it open and ... suddenly.. I heard them. Those dreaded footsteps right behind me. I knew it, I knew I was being followed. I whipped around and saw...

Me!

Me said breathlessly, ‘Don’t run away! We need to talk!’

‘No,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to talk about. One of me is bad enough. I don’t need two.’

Me said, ‘You always run away from what you’re afraid of, or what you don’t like. Face it!’

‘No,’ I said, trying to shut the door, but Me had her foot in it. ‘Go away. I’m afraid of facing you.’

‘What are you most afraid of?’

So I stopped. Me wasn’t going away. I said slowly, ‘I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of running out of money, of friends... I’m afraid of losing those I love. I’m afraid .....’ and I went on and on. Me and I – we went in through that door, and we weren’t running any more. We sat and talked about it. It all poured out – the fears, the tears.

After a long while, Me said, ‘Why don’t you write about it? About what you think? About what you want to.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid. What if no one likes it?’

‘Only one way to know. Only one way to attack this. It’s your first fear. Face it. Write.’

So I sat and began to write....