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Identity, Part 1/Many.

Living in Israel has impelled me to write. Not since I was in middle or high school have I felt the need to write. I don’t like it. I don’t like it, because I’m not happy with my writing. My writing does not live up to the standards to which I hold myself. A reader can tell from my style that I am a female millennial spending her time reading the New York Times and Twitter. Usually I’m glad and proud to be female, millennial, and aware of the NYT-world; yet, perhaps because I don’t respect many female millennial writers (do I not see their/our strengths as strengths, because of social [literary] conditioning?), I want to differentiate my writing.

One must write to be a better writer, though, and I must write, either way. Before even I begin, I send this identity crisis out into the ether. Not the identity crisis I thought I’d write about today, or one I knew I had — but that’s the joy of writing, isn’t it?

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