I hesitate to start this post. I don’t want to make pre-broken promises. I am broken, so how can my words be anything but?

I’ve never lost my passion for writing. But I have, from time to time, lost my voice. It gets buried within — too deep to find; too deep to retrieve. Clear writing takes clear thinking; for me, it takes fervor, too. I cannot write about something I don’t care about. Or, rather, I don’t want to.

But life has taken some twisty turns lately. It’s been hard to find my way, so different has the labyrinth been from the straightaway I’d imagined.

Decisions have been harder, too — and more life-altering. I’m in my thirties now. I can no longer afford the luxury of screwing up.

And so I’m taking take baby steps. I’ve always been a thinker, and I’m bordering on being over-analytical now. Not to say I can’t make decisions, but . . . when I get to the end of my maze, I want to know I navigated its zigzags the best that I could.

And I want you to know, too — those who have joined me, those who have cared; those who have stayed with me long enough to watch me try (again and again and . . .) to

begin again.

 

p.s. Thank you, those of you, who have reached out to me in my silence. You encouragement means more than you know.