Kati Neal Verburg

I'm a writer, attacking the world of freelance as I slave away on my future NY Times bestselling novel. I'd like to accept your rolled eyes at my over-confidence but, alas, I refuse. Most writers understand the outcome of seemingly endless force-fed creativity is a brain weak from quasi-creative thoughts stunted by misfired synapse, a body exhausted from stagnant fingers hovering above a keyboard, and a final read-through of our efforts that has us declaring the final product as shit, pure shit. This results in the obvious: holding our art close to our chests, preserving the posibility of greatness within by keeping the exposure to scrutiny in our control.

What a waste of time.

Today I've decided to proudly bear my writing- my gift, as my mother had always called it, by starting a blog, and by pursuing my life-long goal of writing a book. And while I may be writing in a pink bunny mask- not entirely ready to abandon the security of my insecurities, I'm getting there.

Baby steps, baby.