Begin Again… And Again… And Again…

When I was younger, I used to write until my hands hurt. From first grade, all the way through high school, I would put down stories about mysteries and spies and magical worlds with pirates and romance. But then, somewhere between the burgeoning pressures of my rapidly approaching adulthood and simply trying to decipher where I fit in the grand scheme of things, I put down my pen and notebook and got swept up into other things. Not a viable excuse, but certainly a truthful accounting of what happened and continued to happen since, in the real world, it’s a rare thing to find anyone with the time to take you by the shoulders and say “Keep at it, damnit!” To my credit, every now and again I would attempt to pick it back up again in some fashion or another, but usually without any plotted out intent. My writing in those intervening years amounted to lengthy, frustrated journal entries to cope with anxiety and a halfhearted blog about food that I abandoned when I came to my senses and remembered Yelp was a thing.
In the end, it took a frigid, blizzard-ridden winter and essentially being at the end of my rope for me to truly turn back to what had once been a constant in my life. In those months, I was coming out of some very painful personal struggles and working on finding a way back to (mostly) sustainable happiness. In the midst of all of that, I’d had a few short, partially formed stories bouncing around in my head and late one evening, as we prepared to be snowed in for the first of many times, I opened up a blogger account and wrote one of them out. I won’t pretend that all at once something brilliant and liberating clicked into place, but I can say that it felt natural and in some way comforting to get back to it all after so long. In the ensuing weeks, through piles upon piles of wintry weather, I wrote down a few more stories and then started back up with a long form work of fiction I had long since abandoned, and the more that I worked, the more I started to feel at ease with the notion of bring a writer again.
It feels strange to call myself such a thing, particularly because I have yet to be anything more than self-published (on a blog of my own making), and because the title calls up giants like Austen and Hemingway and certainly not little me. That said, I’m going to keep at it and endeavor not to feel like an impostor, hence this new website and a renewed promise to update it and the works posted on its pages. And while I have no foreseeable plans to put my writing aside, should the worst happen and other parts of life once again take over, it’s reassuring to know that I can always reach for it again, that the stories are still in my head waiting, and that maybe all it takes it me grabbing a hold of my own shoulders and shaking them all loose.

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