Thursday, May 19, 2016


It seems my voice has been drowned out by my own thoughts.  The busier I become, a slave to my own ideals and expectations, the more I seem to push writing to the wayside.  What purpose do my words play in the big, old blogosphere?  I don't know.  I don't know that even matters.  However, I do know I will not find my true, authentic voice unless I write.  I will only be silenced by the onslaught of picture perfect Instagram posts, followed by links to blogs that inspire and make me aspire. . .but stifle my onslaught of words.

Sometimes it seems my words are all I have to offer as a gift to a hurting friend, a confused child, an angry person, or my best friend.  Writing for me is an undisciplined practice, a dream that was born in my heart as a child who filled journal after journal with stories I now share with my own kids.  Where did that dream go? Did it die because it wasn't practical?  It wasn't an easy feat so I locked the memory in the deep recesses of my mind?  I don't know.  I don't know that I'm the same writer today, anyways.  Fiction seems a far away avenue that I wouldn't even know how to begin.  I'm an avid reader, but a writer?  Not so much these days.

Is it a book contract that makes ones words matter more than someone else's?  Or is the writer offering a glimpse into their world that should be accepted as an invitation to understand them from their perspective? Again, I don't know.  I do know I've been silent for too long now in this space.  I also know that my thoughts don't stop just because I haven't written any of them down.  So today I write some words.  Maybe tomorrow I'll write some more.