This Is What Happened...

Some days it is easier to write than others but I think it is the starting that is the hardest.  I have waffled for days about having a set time where I start and write and finish a said amount of words, pages, ideas, or at bare minimum I have sat in front of a computer for the required number of hours. But there is one thing that seems true about the pursuit, about why I started writing in the first place.  And that is that I have discovered something worth continuing.  It is a tangible tool in which I can in the short span of a day capture the beauty, the joy, the sorrow, the anger and fear, along with the occasional but no less powerful seconds of awe in which we are reminded of what C.S. Lewis might call out true home.  These seconds are often over before we realize we were experiencing them and we have only the afterglow to linger in.  Like coming out just after a sunset and having it described to you by a close friend. This might be a sunset, o...

I've been encouraged to write for sometime.  It seems on the whole blogging is fairly encouraged for young writers.  Practice and all that. And I've largely held off from doing anything that really resembles it; that really resembles placing my work on a stage where people can see.  Even as I write this I ironically don't intend to really tell anyone this exists. It is my desire to become a great writer some day, or at least one who can buy fast food and fill his gas tank with the meager gains he collects from writing. For a long time I'd been looking for something to make me whole, or at least feeling solid.  Solid is a bit vague I suppose.  What I mean is something that when I did it, I felt like I was having a joyful experience, something that when I woke up and rolled out of bed in the morning wouldn't feel like work but would feel like a relationship or an act of worship.  I don't want to make this sound like I wanted to find an idol or something ...