Write. It's the nudging I keep getting. On those rare, quiet occasions when I have a moment to ask myself what I should be doing that I'm not, the answer is: write. When I'm contemplating complex ideas or questions and I can't get it all sorted out in my mind, the urge is to write. When I yearn for some version of my former self before I got lost in the crazy of becoming a slave to my calendar, I remember that I used to write. I love to write. I always have. In the second grade I remember writing a story about our pet Schnauzer. I filled several of the grey, thin, extra-wide ruled pages front and back and didn't want to stop. I remember the story coming alive as it came from my head through my pencil and onto the page. I still feel passionate about that process. For a while now I've felt pressed - even prompted - not just to write my stories, but to share them. I believe stories are meant to be shared. I'm excited to share mine.
