Tuesday, April 1, 2014


I am a writer. At least that has been a descriptor that I have used. It has been on my "bio" and resume for years. Lately though, I've been seriously questioning this distinction.

I always written for joy. Journals going back to my single digit years. Short stories, articles, and poems published throughout high school and college. A journalism major turned into communications major, minoring in creative writing.

This blog was and is an outlet for a small sample of my mental ramblings. I write an awful lot of work related material, but the joy of writing is somehow buried in the mounds of "responsibilities" that are prioritized above my love for crafting the perfect sentence and sharing the heartfelt story.

An artist has art. An actor has film or theater credits. A programmer has code. A dancer, dances. A runner, runs. One may not be a famous artist, actor, programmer, athlete.... but their life should reflect their label. 

And my life, of late, doesn't reflect the label of writer.  

While recently I have been placing artificial goals on myself to appear publicly like the writer I want to be, I am also finding that there is an internal yearning to capture everything. I've started typing random notes of life into my phone, iPad, computer and scratch paper in a way I've never done before. Trying to translate the stories in my head into something useful to someday share.

So, pardon the dust. Construction is in progress.

I am a writer. Therefore, I write.

Sent from my iPhone

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