Hi! My name is Sanne. And I'm an over-sharer. Let's talk.

Hi! My name is Sanne. And I'm an over-sharer. Let's talk.

I think my biggest problem may be that I don't actually see this as a problem. But I do harbor concerns for those who sometimes get dragged along on my inchoate chatfests.

OK. That's a lie. I'm not really concerned. But I think perhaps I should be. So I'm gonna chat about it now. Exhaustively.

Let's start with a few home truths. I'll freely admit that I tend to spill my mental budget faster than a Pussycat Doll will loosen up her buttons. Just nod in my general direction, and I'll tell you all about my day. And yesterday. It's quite possible I'll even include my hopes for tomorrow.

Hells bells. On Sundays I even do it in public.

But does being naturally loquacious equate with being emotionally easy? Are disclosers deemed ditzy? Or does being verbally free-spirited actually equate with more intellectual complexity?

There are pluses to being a natural-born communicator.

Do you fear the dreaded awkward silence? Not me. Come to think of it, I can't actually remember experiencing one.

If a fellow pauses to draw a breath, I'll leap into the airspace and prevent that crack from developing into a conversational crevasse. I like to think of it as prophylactic prattling.

Lest you think my lips are loose, let me assure you I am capable of discretion. As long as the secret is not mine.

My mother encouraged my chatterbox tendencies. (Oh, sure! Blame your mother!) She took comfort in knowing she never had to fret that her baby was tumbling into deep monkey business, because I always blabbed all.

If a teacher had praised my efforts. If I felt I had somehow failed. If a peer had done something funny, scary or awesome in my eyes, sooner or later, usually sooner, I would be bending Mom's ear about the happenings on the playground or in the classroom.

Once boys entered my orbit, Mom still had to hear all about just about everything. While other mothers were bemoaning the cricket-song silences between themselves and their teen daughters, I was still clinging firmly to Mom's apron strings. They provided great access to her long-suffering ears. Mom was such a great sounding board for my adolescent angst, and she imparted great wisdom.

Lord knows I was an angsty kid. Still am. Not a kid, of course. But I can sometimes fret myself to flinders over stuff that doesn't deserve pondering.

"Change the channel," Mom used to say.

Her point was I should turn the knob on whatever mental soap opera was playing in my over-active imagination. And she was too kind to simply tell me to "Shut up, already!" In fact, I never heard Mom utter those words.

Good thing. Because nothing kicks me into hyper-talk mode faster than someone measuring my piehole for a strip of duct tape.

To paraphrase Taylor Swift, I have never, ever, ever, EVER been OK with being vocally muzzled.

I recently shared a quote with 200 of my closest friends that stated, "I've reached that age where I've gone from 'I probably shouldn't say that' to 'What the hell, let's see what happens.' " But the truth is, my inner censor and I broke up eons ago.

What's so great about being taciturn anyway? Such an unfriendly word. Brings to mind cranky old men who mutter unpleasantly about how children, and certain columnists, should be seen and not heard.

Look, I get that some folks are quiet contemplators. I kind of envy them. And I suppose the world would be way too noisy if we were all external cogitators. But sometimes the only way I can slow my spinning thoughts enough to sift the gold from the dross is to articulate them.

Trust me, I'm often as surprised as anyone at what comes out of my mouth, or my fingers. But, as my irrepressible father used to say, "Better out than in, Kid."

Oh, would you look at the time! How did it get to be 3 a.m.? I'd better let you get some rest. Thanks for listening. We'll talk again soon.

Reach reporter Sanne Specht at 541-776-4497 or sspecht@mailtribune.com.