I didn't really start writing until I was in my late 40s and early 50s, and I've never studied the theory of literature or had any formal training. I suppose I am posing as the Grandma Moses (is that too old a reference?) of writing.
In all that time, especially as I've progressed through personal essays and the memoir, I have had the odd feeling that it is not really me writing but rather an environment-nurtured creature who writes things that are meant to intrigue and entertain but not offend or reveal all the truth the Real Gary knows, or believes, or fears.
It is as if, and this is said as dispassionately as possible, that I am a better writer than my psychological make-up allow me to be, that if I could only learn to let my consciousness step aside I would find something interesting and important to be said, something that the layer of propriety and social niceties lacquered over my Real Self has obscured.
Maybe that's an illiterate manifestation of yin and yang, or the superego beating up on the id or maybe is all simple balderdash ...