I started writing again.  With pen and paper.  Early in the morning.

Always before sun-up and mostly just by candlelight.  That way I can’t really see what I’m writing.  Makes it easier to let go and harder to judge (or even decipher) what comes out.

No matter how long it’s been or how many times I come back to the practice, I’m still amazed by how familiar it feels.

My moment of, oh hey, there you are.  I know you.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer.

I self-published my first book in third grade and drafted over 100 handwritten pages of a novel in middle school.  I accumulated a bunch of by-lines for articles, essays and short stories in high school, college and graduate school.  Throughout my career my name’s ran in more than a handful of national credits.  I’ve been posting to this blog for…years now.

So, even though it’s not so early anymore and there’s no hiding from the clarity of these typed words on this illuminated screen and my tendency is to minimize (ad nauseam) any and all of my creative contributions…this morning feels like an appropriate time to shift my thinking:

I haven’t always wanted to be a writer.  A writer is who I’ll always be.  Who I’ve always been.  Even when my sentences are not well-written.

PS – Here’s a picture of the back cover of my first book. 🙂