March 20, 2022

Once again I begin to write. I’m less afraid. I’m less worried about content or even writing. Not like I used to be. In that respect, I feel a strange sense of arrival when it is the last type of activity which would encourage such thought.

Writing is the process. To me it is the ultimate cocktail of processes, of improvements and of striving. Yet, I feel like to finally write to write is an arrival at an understood point.

I had not enjoyed this feeling often. What lies ahead does not even matter. What a bizarre state of mind!

Therefore, I will write.

I think of my father often. When spring officially hits, I think of him even more. Upon telling him of my writing, I would like to imagine him saying, “Make it a beautiful story.”

Given the twists and turns of life, I believe he would mean to sat that. I think he would pause, tap his index finger to his lips. In thought, he might make a few humorous suggestions on how to begin the story. or he might tease me about the content of a few possible chapters.

But he would just be stalling.

“Make it good,” he would recommend finally.

“Make it good.”

Lots of love, and a smooch for the road. ~tbd