​

I’ve never been very good at dancing. Sure, I’d like to think I’m moderately coordinated and have a vague sense of rhythm, but others might not agree. My feet can’t seem to keep up with the carefully crafted performance I create in my mind and, consequently, I often find myself tripping over my own feet or even the empty air around me. I have an uncanny ability to channel Baby from the first half of Dirty Dancing. Despite this seemingly obvious realization that I should avoid any attempts at graceful movement, it has never stopped me from breaking out my moves in even the most socially inappropriate places. I don’t do it for others, in fact, those with me often claim I am a stranger in public, but it is one of the many charming personality traits that I unapologetically indulge in.

​

In contrast, I have never seemed to have an issue expressing myself through writing. The choreography of my writing routine has been rehearsed and perfected. I have practiced to the point that my performance comes naturally and almost always yields the desired results. The swirling loops of my pen are far more graceful and confident than any of my attempts to twirl around on my toes have ever been. Still, I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer (and certainly not as a dancer). Really, if I’m being completely honest, at a certain point, my writing routine has become tired. Yes, I write to different tunes, but the steps have become worn out, reused, and safe. Writing has long served a practical purpose for me - a function of pleasing the expectations and desires of others. I know what the judges want, and I perform accordingly. I’m like the traditionally valued parents or Catskills summer resort owners (oh, yes - I am fully committing to this) that fear anything unfamiliar and exciting because it threatens a possible misstep. But now, I’ve come to the point in the plot where I realize that the same old moves will work, yet if you truly want to accomplish something special - you have to break the mold. You have to find motivation within yourself to indulge in selfish risks that may cause you to stumble or maybe, just maybe, unleash greatness.  

The best kind of writing is selfish - wholeheartedly serving the interest of the writer alone. When a writer documents their passion by expressing their deepest fears, desires, and aspirations to only please themselves - seeking to fulfill their own sense of pride - I believe that they unlock their utmost potential. Without regard for the consequences, they not only become willing to take a leap but also revel in the fall. 

​

I want to be selfish.

​

I want to write for myself. I want to write to feel the cathartic release of things that I am too afraid to audibly declare. I want to know that I am onto something when my pen can no longer keep up with my thoughts. I want my pages to begin to resemble the scribbled chaos of my whirling thoughts and never-ending ideas to the point that even I find the words unrecognizable later. As in my pursuits of coordinated footwork, tapping into these messy parts of myself are what I aspire to be unrepentant about. 

​

To be completely candid, I am afraid. 

​

I am scared to write at times even more so than to say things out loud. My pen often feels heavier and more permanent than my voice. When I stumble over my feet, I disregard or shake it off later without the definitive documentation of how exactly it played out. I’m well aware that the mental image that I create of myself is far more flattering than the reality. However, once on paper, there’s no denying my thoughts or mistakes. That terrifies me. But, what scares me the most is never taking the risk of putting my pen to the page, of never capturing something magical. I want to take the leap with total trust in myself in an attempt to capture the triumphant feeling of a final lift in a dance scene set to “I’ve had the Time of my Life”.

​

Will I stumble? Yes. 

​

Will I fall? Yes, most likely bruising my ego in the process. 

​

Will sitting idly stop the never-ending creation of new moves in my mind? No. 

​

So, I write. I let it out. I trip over my own words. I stumble to the point of utter embarrassment. I get back up. I try again. I create new moves. I don’t retire all of the old steps. I evolve - as a casual dancer, a hopeful writer, and a person. I write to be the person that I want to be, to make unapologetically selfish moves that make me happy and proud. I write in the pursuit of documenting and finding my voice within the external and internal chaos of life. I write because “nobody puts Baby in a corner.” I write because I am a writer (that loves to dance).