I am kind of afraid. Kind of afraid to write, kind of afraid to commit to an idea. I used to write all the time. I lived and breathed by my journals. My whole life – documented. My dreams, my fears, my passions, my goals – thoroughly prescribed.

My writing hit a crescendo way back during my Community College/Short Story writing days.  I was in my early 20’s, had a brand new computer and man was I cool. After work and classes,  I’d sit in my 500 sq ft studio apartment right near the beach, drink Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill Wine, smoke Virgina Slim Ultra lights, pet my pit bull and wait for my long-haired surfer boyfriend/love of my life to come over. Life was so simple. I ate, smoked, played, schooled and wrote…oh how I wrote….

I wrote poems, short stories….the internet and cell phones were non existent, so nothing to look at. Nothing to distract me on my computer, other than the cool fonts, colors, and spacing of Microsoft Word.

Which left a lot more for my imagination.

A lot more space for my thoughts to be mine, and not seeded images or story lines planted by the day’s headline Yahoo news.

I wrote about everything. My days waitressing. The cook I fought with because he didn’t get me my food fast enough; the grumpy bitty that cut me off in traffic; the old lady with the smeared pink lipstick at the bus stop who haunted me,  the furniture, shoes and box springs that my beloved pit-bull was chewing, and the love of my life. A LOT about him.

It just freed me, and I felt connected; Writing was my truth, that was me there, raw on those pages. I could write me, and I could go back and read – ME. I could go back and remember ME at that time, at that moment. I was alive, and curious and so unenlightened but so thrilled to be on my way to SOMETHING.

I tried keeping journals as the career kicked in, I tried keeping journals as the babies were born and life got underway. I usually got about 2-3 pages in, would forget about it for a few months, get inspired, go buy a new journal, and start that pathetic attempt at reconnecting to that time when writing was so easy, again and again.

I even wrote some magazine articles. It was hard. I gave up too easy. Life, always an excuse.

Life passes too. And now, my 15 year old daughter now is a beautiful writer. On her 5th book!

And me, well I am inspired again. Kids are funny that way.

I recently went to send some magazine ideas to a publication, and was told “send my your blog” first

Fuck, I felt old.

So, here is the blog.

Not sure what to name it, what to fill it with.

And I am afraid….of starting.

It’s just me. It’s just me and  this screen.

So write.

So I will.

I hope as time builds and my confidence grows, that which used to come so easy to me will start flowing. That juice that fed me long ago, will rebuild in my system and feed my soul, my mind, my creativity. I’ll find a muse, I’ll pray, I’ll be inspired.

And maybe, just maybe, this writing thing won’t be so scary after all.

Peace out.