If there is one thing I miss about the hyper emotional, hormone charged days of my youth it is writing.  I wrote everything; journal, songs, poetry, short stories.  I was so proud, one of the few truly proud moments of that time in my life, when I was published in my small town high school’s literary booklet.  I’ve been longing to flex that muscle again and then life happens and excuses happen.  I’ve talked myself out of sitting down to write more times than I care to admit to myself.  I’ve had a 1/2 written book on the back burner of my brain for close to 25 years. An auto- biographical book on reflection and life and inner demons.  The awful and wonderful thing about having something like that stewing for so many years is that every day, every step of personal growth adds more pages and chapters while at the same time making that first step to start it that much more daunting a task.  I must admit, however, I am giddy about the blank canvas of a blog.

Just getting myself to the point that I’m confident enough to flex my creative muscle to the world has been a tug of war.  The side wearing the t-shirts that say “You’re not good enough or smart enough and no one cares” seems to spend FAR more time at the gym than the side sporting “You can DO IT! It’s just a BLOG” wear.

Then in order to further procrastinate I’ve spent more than a few days in the inner turmoil of; anonymity or under my own name, share with my friends and family or just put it out there to strangers.  Yet now that I’m filling the screen of my first true blog, my mind is racing about all the things I have to say and the people I would like to share it with.  The jerk that sits on my shoulder and constantly tells me I’m not good enough, have poor vocabulary, bad grammar is oddly quiet, not silent, never silent, just quiet.

In these moments while I enjoy the quiet, please enjoy my blog.

 

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