I just deleted 170+ subscribers and numerous posts of what once was a business newsletter to challenge myself to write about what really matters.
Because I want to surrender to this yearning to tell stories that move people — like how
, , , and , and countless others, have moved me.Because I want to remember the ache of searching for just the right word.
To sift through memories in search of meaning. To make sense of the first half of life in order to be intentional about the second.
I’m not here to naval-gaze, otherwise a journal would suffice — and wouldn’t open me to critique.
So why the public forum? I suppose it’s because I’m ready to stretch into my identity as a writer, whatever that means.
But what do I risk in stepping into the light? Of searching publicly for answers I don’t yet know the questions to?
Maybe I should just journal. I’m good at that. Plus, journals can be left behind for my children to read.
Wait — No, there’s something to this feedback loop. To getting things out of my head and onto paper and sending it out into the ether.
I’m writing because I no longer can’t not write, right?
Wait — Do I really want to publish this? Do I really want to ‘go there’?
This is scary. What will people think?
Oh, right, I don’t care what other people think.
Yes I do, but I shouldn’t.
Dammit, I’m going for it.