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I’ve been in a holding pattern for several months. I’ve been waiting and biding time and getting through. Now, things are starting to change. Hopes I had given up and dreams I had put away to look at later are starting to reveal themselves and what they’ve become while I wasn’t watching. Life is a work of art in progress.

I’ve accepted a position at a library as an associate. It’s part time, but it fits beautifully around my existing work schedule and other obligations. And what’s so wonderful about more work is the nature of the work I’ll be doing. Surrounded by books and the accumulated dreams, visions, knowledge, and revelations they contain… working to help people find what they need in their own journeys… being where people value learning and education, thought and development… talking to people who READ… these are joys I look forward to with a certain excitement and hungry anticipation. There will probably be difficult issues or uncomfortable things as every job has, but I am internally calm and this feels right.


I am trying to be more intentional about writing. I scribble a lot in my journal, trying to keep dialogue with myself flowing. I sometimes think of my journal as a series of letters to myself, though usually it is just stream of consciousness, jotted notes, or scribbled ideas. There’s a lot of inane written chatter, but I allow it as all part of the process. The important thing is just that I keep writing. I need to keep in practice. Even if I’m the only one that ever sees it.

But here, in an online, accessible forum, my words are not just laid between closed pages, viewable only to me. Here I am more vulnerable. Here I often war with insecurities about content and whether I should even bother to keep what I post; Here I long for meaning and elevation of thought, but fear some sort of ephemeral failure. Here I am visible to anyone who stops to read. As a result I sometimes self-edit my text to death.

I want to write something more. I want to pen something worth reading. The dream of every writer: would-be or otherwise. I struggle with notions of who my audience is. I agonize over content and then just write about whatever the hell I feel or what comes to mind. I feel like it’s an odd process. I just want to write. (But sometimes I feel that I also want so badly to be READ.)

I don’t outline anything. I can’t plan anything out in advance. I have to feel free to put down whatever, whenever, and clean it all up later. I scribble little patches of ideas. I jot notes. I try to connect epiphanies together. Sometimes I just want to tear it all out, pare it down and start over from a basic idea, or a line, or a thought. I sabotage myself. Still… I write. One line following another. One word, one phrase, one thought. Little bits of myself in print, in ink, scrawled across pages, splattered on the backs of receipts, in notebooks, on pages, scattered like leaves across a bed, a nightstand, the floor. I just keep writing, and maybe something will be born from all of this.