So let me introduce you to my writing self:
She lives in my head as a constant distraction. I’m working on spreadsheets while she’s dictating dialogue. She won’t be hushed or ignored. She requires immediate attention. She’s far more demanding than I would ever dare to be.
In the end I surrender and scribble down her words. I know she’ll just keep repeating them until I obey. Her fear of forgetting a theme or a phrase is more overpowering than my own task at hand.
While I would be content to drift through life in my own little bubble, she watches and listens to everything around her. She analyses it all, remembers it and stores it away. Sometime later it’ll re-emerge as a new work of fiction. It’s origins now completely indistinguishable.
She can put into writing the things that I could never say. She takes chances that I would never dare to make. She digs into the past that I would otherwise forget and salvages a memory which she won’t allow me to neglect.
Though she shares my experiences, she’s nothing like me. She’s more daring and braver, tougher and stronger. While my practical side is laden down by responsibilities, she’s not afraid to follow her dreams.