Every introduction describes curriculum and career, successes and failures. For me, this means former veterinarian. Lifelong reader and unproven writer. But will anyone recognize me? Agree with the words I choose? Kidney donor. Animal lover and nature addict. Determined wife and clumsy homemaker. Given the chance, would family and friends describe the same person?
Just as the bulk of language weighs somewhere between noun and verb, so identity lives between the name and action of memory. Like flattering phrases or awkward lines, my virtues and flaws can be edited away, absentmindedly overlooked, and truthfully cast aside because they comprise an almost universal state of being.
So where is the text that defines me, the written equivalent of a fingerprint or DNA analysis? That’s not rhetorical. I’m asking. In everything I write and everything I do, I’m asking.