I Am Who I Am This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

October 7, 2010
I am the master of my stories. With just a scribble of my pen, the power of words can send my characters from their most joyous moments to their most tragic hours. I am three years old. My essays are awkward and unsophisticated. But, like a child, I strive to improve. I am a puppet. My mind pulls the strings. My body has no choice but to obey so I type my thoughts like crazy, watching my work take shape like a beautifully carved block of wood. I am a poet. I force words to be friends. I make them shake hands and reconcile after a quarrel. I am a war general. As Bridget Gray said, “I do not arm myself with a weapon, but I do load and cock my tongue and shoot my mouth off like a gun.” I believe that violence is never the answer. The written word can solve even the most complex botheration. I am a jealous colleague. I often catch myself reading a friend’s work and wondering why I too cannot write in such a stylish fashion. It only impels me to work harder. I am a Lethargian in the Doldrums. I procrastinate by cleaning and organizing every sheet of paper in my filing cabinets. I change my system of organization with every large writing assignment I receive. I am a writer.
I am a wolf. I snatch books from the librarian’s hands and devour them whole. They are my sustenance and the sole reason for my survival. I am an addict. I crave the companionship that I find in them. The protagonists are my friends and we battle together against our adversaries. I am a hoarder. I stash the books under my bed so I can read to the end without stopping, even though the night calls. I savor the moments when the house has fallen asleep and I can secretly enjoy them in silence. I am a seasoned collector. I keep only the most beloved books to read over and over again until they are ragged from love. The books sit on my shelves like royalty. I watch them look down on the lowly library books because they know they are the favored ones. I am a cheerleader. I desperately scream for the characters to succeed and finally find their peace. I feel for them when they are unhappy. I celebrate when they have triumphed. I am an audience. I watch the drama unfold with rapture. The characters know that I am close, but they cannot speak to me. When I am alone, lying on my bed, my simple room transforms into my own private theater. I am a reader.

I am a paradox. I cannot control myself when I speak about a subject I am passionate about but I patiently lend an ear to my family and friends. I am a knife. My voice cuts through noise. My voice becomes a roar, even without a microphone. I am a politician. I am always careful to think of whether my words will offend someone before I say them. I am a bulldozer. I plow through my mistakes. I desperately hope that no one notices my stammering voice. I am an artist. I always find a creative way to express my deepest thoughts. I hope to engage those watching me. I long for them to beg me to continue. I am a fly on the wall. I listen and observe all that is happening around me. I learn from the mistakes of others this way. I am a recording device. I remember everything that is said in every conversation. I store the information in dusty boxes in my head. I am an elephant. My enormous ears can pick up whispered conversations. I am a flower. I am there when you most need me and can help you decide whether he loves you or loves you not. I am a speaker and a listener.

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