I have long had a desire to write. I read stories and books and dream of expressing a story that resonates with the audience. I skate along the words of the author listening for the whisper, the gasp, the winding logic of the mind. I love to analyze and luxuriate in the author’s style. And I love to forget about it entirely, skimming through their words without complete comprehension to find out the main point or the resolution. And though I have often dreamed of having the skill and perspective of a writer, I do not write.

I know to write, they say, you simply must do. I am a ‘ do later’, ‘learn now’ person. I will read about writing for years and not put a letter to the page. And that is exactly what I’ve done. My books tell me to “just write” to “write what you know” to “have discipline” I have an unending list of inspiring suggestions and exercises. I think what it comes down to is fear. Do I have a direction? Can I write in active voice? What is my point? If I want to help people, how do I package it so people will actually read it?

I have a lot of stories. I have tragedy. I have joy. I have contemplation. I have read and read and read. But which ones do I tell? How do I focus my stories? Do I just journal? When do I actually start a story? Or should I just share about my life? Do I have the courage to share my true thoughts and vulnerabilities?

That is where this blog comes in. It may not be focused, but it’s a starting place. A place to throw things on the wall and see what is left when it slides down.