For twenty some years I have known I was a writer (not a speller, or grammerician, or editor). I have always felt though I wasn't actually ready to write, that the story I need to tell hadn't been revealed to me yet. I've periodically demanded pieces from myself but they never felt right, but rather forced and formulated. Writing is hard work and to this point in my life it has felt that the story hasn't been worth the effort put into it. I have watched others write and while I have seen some jewels written, I have also seen a lot of the same forced pieces that lacked the beauty and poetry of the inspired word. I have read those gifted writers from our and from other times and the flow of their prose seems beyond imagining. My favorite line ever was "The ship hung in the air in much the way a brick doesn't". To me that simple line speaks of a brillance that is beyond mere mortals to instill upon a page with the simple pen.
It is with much trepidation that at this point I must announce that I am ready to write my story. I've needed to live a certain amount of life, to meet and enjoy the company of a wide variety of people throughout my life, to live the life that is not the same as the Jones's nextdoor, to make many more than my share of mistakes, to live life beyond the edge of good reason, and to behave poorly despite my best intentions through much of my life. I wish I knew where the story is about to take me from here but I do not know, how this story is going to affect my ability to maintain or enchance this blog I also do not know, but change is in the air, I can smell it.
To all the people who have helped, hated or fought me to this point I offer my thanks.