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I write because for years I was afraid of my own voice.

As a child, once I had a story on my tongue, I felt like I could spin the thread forever. Spool after spool, I felt like I could write, but in reality, it was a few paragraphs or chapters before it would fail to hold its myriad intentions aloft.

I shared my ambitions with someone else, and was crushed by their critique.

I was silent in their presence for years to come.

And then, an insidious voice crept up inside me. It called me worthless, unloved, unwanted, unworthy.

And I listened, despite desperately looking for a way to escape the negative feedback loop.

It began a spiral.

Depression and the onset of schizophrenia put me through a merry chase in the wonderland of looking-glass Seattle and its counties.

I ended up in a psych ward at UW.

And on the other side, the words begin to flow. It was like a cork had been unstopped, and words poured from my vessel. I wrote poem after poem. I was trying to capture my thoughts, although I was still scared of them, because I sought to understand them now.

Why do I write?

I write because I can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t. I write because I desire to share all of me: the goodood, the bad, the irredeemably broken.

I hope that one day other people will read my writing, and be inspired to write their own stories, write their histories and fictions, autobiographies, and podcasts.

I write because I am grateful that someone like you will read my little history today

V. Buritsch

A freelancer, fiction writer, podcast listener, fantasy reader who sometimes remembers to write for herself on occasion. She has a BA in English and Management, and currently lives in the Pacific Northwest.

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