“WORDS ARE FLOWING OUT LIKE ENDLESS RAIN INTO A PAPER CUP,” SINGS A YOUNG JOHN LENNON THROUGH MY SPEAKERS AND INTO MY MIND.
“Are you mocking my writer’s block, Lennon?” I say aloud to the disembodied voice of the Beatle. The John I’ve now conjured up in my mind replies with some witty jab about how he could probably compose a classic song quicker than I could write a paragraph about myself.
I can’t say he’s entirely wrong. Because although I have a deep-rooted passion for the written word — and, I would argue, a deep-rooted passion for myself — combining the two never feels quite right. My depiction of me ends up sounding either unwittingly pretentious or bashfully self-deprecating; but that in itself must be telling of something, right?