Saturday, February 27, 2010


I bought another new notebook the other day.

It had to be just the right one: sturdy cover, college ruled, recycled paper.

Upon its now-blank pages I will write a story. A story about mothers and grandmothers and loss and acceptance and tolerance and pain and self-reliance and self-evolution and ethics and independence and the past and the present and moving forward.

This is not my story – it's the story. But it wants to drip out of my pen, slowly over time and between the cracks of life.

The characters are knocking down walls in my ego, constructing their own blueprints, and begging me to breathe inky life into their two dimensional lungs.

And I promised I would.

So I'm committing my intentions right here, hoping that these words will solidify and keep hope from sliding out of my heart.


I'm writing a novel.


Okay, I haven't started yet. But I will. For myself. No matter how long it takes to drag out and pin down and mock up.

You can read it if you want, but give me a couple years, okay?