I love to read but never “have time.” I dream about playing music again while my clarinet still sleeps on the top shelf in my closet. There is another life waiting for me . . . at least I think it is, surely it isn’t the other way around? I could not be sitting here waiting for it . . . and yet, I sense my own growing impatience with my excuses. I can feel fall coming in my bones and blood. It is deep and winter is dark and my soul has plans for my heart and fingers it refuses to divulge. Probably for the best, if I knew what was coming, I would most likely come up with a hundred reasons it could never work.
My writing is ready to light up a long-darkened corner of my mind. I have ticked out silly news and sappy love and a battle cry for women’s confidence, but there are other words which have waited. These other words are fed by old novels of little interest to most. These other words are fearless themselves, but terrify me. They require careful construction and a level of skill I doubt I have at the moment, but they assure me if I start, I will get where they need me to be. So here I am; to practice, to try, to be afraid but not deterred, to become.