For a dozen years [1998-2011], I have been writing these Soliloquies believing that I’ve painted a true picture of myself and my interests, but I’m not without doubts. People do pretend. Why should I be different? Others have mistaken me for being calm and sane, yet I am plagued by obsessive thoughts. I am a compulsive worrier, anxious about everything, and fearful about failing every endeavor. I don’t want to perform in front of people, not even to speak before a group, and find my only comfort of expression is in the written word and hiding behind the page.