There's a dark side to writing that I didn't discover until it was too late. I was respectful and sensitive, the epitome of “kind.” However, writing has seductively taken away the time and energy I devoted to caring about everyone else. Like the mild-mannered Doctor Jekyll when he sipped that fateful elixir, I have transformed into someone I barely recognize. Let me say that I never chose to become a writer. Yet over the years the writing has haunted me, peeking out from behind the trees, always at the edge of my field of vision. I finally turned and faced him. WELL? I asked: what do you want from me? Writing smiled as he approached. I felt it melt into my body, filling the empty spaces like water in a sponge. Ahhh, he said. Let's get to work. Breaking free of my inhibitions, I jumped from the highest diving board. After the excitement of a first draft, I derived a deeper sense of joy from revisions. When all the right words were in place, I felt my shit... middle of paper... ashes on my computer, she won't see me again that day. Writing doesn't let me go. It gelled in my core; it would be easier for me to remove my lungs. Writing has irrevocably changed my life and my spirit. Have I become cheeky? Let's be honest. Am I more selfish? Replace “dedicated to realizing my potential.” Obsessed? I call it busy. I apply these positive spins to address the most shocking revelation: I have changed, but I have changed into who I truly am.