Without readers, what are writers worth?
May i say, it seems only natural to thank all the lovely people in the blogosphere. This blog was started as a conversation with the vast unknown. The surprise is the connectivity that slowly occurred. And occurs.
I haven’t bothered to count the years. It’s been many. I allowed a small piece of me to emerge. People are much too complex to truly understand another. We cannot possibly hope to solve our problems, in ourselves or around us. What i found is we spread peace by listening.
I hear you read my words, as i read them back to myself. There exists a glimmer, a smile, a tear. On occasion, a cringe, or no interaction at all. I ask, where is the meaning here?
As i consider tomorrow, i cringe. If i am alive, i will continue to write. To write is to breathe for me. Each word alive until it lies on the paper. Once laid, resurrected or buried.
I admit, i am a lazy writer. Whatever pops into my head i lay down. Give it away. Extend permission to you, to do with it what you must.
For me, I acknowledge past words can (should) be crafted better. Or omitted all together. I believe i am growing as a writer. I am learning to ask myself “Did i solely write this to release emotion? Or is there a greater message?”
My writing challenge for 2018 is to be more cognizant of my thoughts. Do my words help or harm, me and you? Are my thoughts rubbish, even worth penning? I admit, the words i write strike fear in my heart. This is my journey. After all. Thank you for inviting me in.
i hope you continue to read my words, often raw and unedited. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Happy writing, J ✍️
e, with no name, is one of my companions along for this ride. On his wings he holds a few American authors. Dickinson. Alcott. Wharton. Frost. Missing would be Plath and Henry James. And then there is Woolf.