Me and my writing self have successfully managed to co-exist since I was old enough to know the difference between letters, and, let's say: my nose. I always liked to write stuff, and I constantly did, but not always in a very purposeful manner. I amused my mother when I was younger, writing strange and lengthy semi-biographic letters to her (on Fridays), which were sort of my early version of a weekly column.
I attempted to write non-fiction for a while, but I just couldn't keep my opinions to myself and the "Big Book of Birds" quickly turned into a rather biased essay, discussing which birds were prettier than others, and why the blackbird, while being quite obnoxious, was a talented singer at heart.
For that matter, I miss the simple way of looking at things, like children do, a really uncomplicated way of "either - or". Now, as an adult, I more often than not have to pretend to be open-minded, sceptical and not easily influenced by big and shiny stuff.
Quite a drag sometimes.
Speaking of which, the "complicated writing" - I did that for a while, mostly professionally, therefor copying a certain bravado, pretending to be open-minded, interested and not easily influenced by shiny stuff.
It didn't work out. Too much mental bling-bling around me, I suppose.
In my Teens I had this phase of writing massive amounts of poetry. Rilke, Trakl and Benn were impressive forces of nature and I wanted to write like they did, because I thought I felt what they did. It was more a process of copying than anything else, but still, it was the time that left a distinct imprint, because I really learned some valuable lessons about the various genres of literature.
Later then, poetry became "too small" for me and I once again toyed with ego-based character-pieces. It took an interesting spin on the way I wrote down my daily experiences with the world.
World and me didn't get along very well at that time.
But on the plus side, two of my poems got published in a collection of poetry in my early twenties.
Now, there is an even bigger project in the making since I am currently working on a novel.
And even though a bit more entangled with the world and its workings, there are still those strange disconnects, the moments of me feeling like a glitch in my own organized, antialiased existence. I always had those. I guess everyone does, in a way.
These moments used to make me sad in the past, but now, I know, for me they are what an ignition is to a car. They ultimately result in my drive to write.