I don't know how to identify myself. I can't say that I am a writer or an artist or any other neatly defined, entirely cohesive entity. But my writing belongs to me. When I listen to my words, I hear the sound of me. And if I look at all the words that are now outside of my head out there in the real world, sometimes I can even see "what" I am.
I waited until the day before my 50th birthday to go boogie boarding. My plunge into extreme sports was my thirteen-year-old daughter's fault. She'd abandoned her boogie board to play beach volleyball, and I was losing interest in my book on this lovely beach. Suddenly I had an epiphany: I'd never boogie boarded in my life!
Some days, I divide the world into people who go to a favorite restaurant and order the same dish each visit and those who listen to the waiter recite the chef's nightly specials and then actually try one of them. There is, of course, the group in-between: those who listen to the specials but knew from the time they made the reservation what they would be eating. At least they go through the motions of considering change.