I know there are stories I need to write – some long, some short. Bits and pieces come to me from out of the blue.  I don’t know where the words come from, I just know I appreciate them.  Sometimes that is not enough and I drop whatever I am doing to try to capture them on paper.  My “bits and pieces” are everywhere in my home, on my computer, and now some will make their way here.  Eventually they may find their way into another story.

My collection of bits and pieces is scattered.  Like my thoughts, they move from one place to the next seemingly without direction or purpose.  And then I rediscover them as I sift through a mound of papers and magazines and the feelings and emotions come back in a rush, as strong as they were when I captured those words.  It makes me wonder why I am not spending all my days hunting and capturing word-pictures and word-feelings.

It would be easy to say “I’m too busy” but it’s not that.  I have time to watch tv, read books, watch YouTube videos, and chase shiny things on the internet.  It would be easy to say “It’s not important” but it’s not that either.  Because it IS important to me.  When I pack a suitcase for a trip, I’m less worried about forgetting an item of clothing than I am about forgetting a notebook.  It would be easy to lay the blame elsewhere – and I hear the echoes from my childhood “just get to the point, would you!”, and that is echoed by my husband’s disinterest in reading stories. But that is about them, not me.

It is just me.  All my life there has been this knowing that I am alone.  No matter who is around me, who I live with or work with, I am still alone in some way.  My thoughts, my dreams, my made up stories – they have kept me sane and made the aloneness bearable.  Given purpose to my existence.  But to make these words public is scary.  I give the world the opportunity to reject and destroy what I’ve worked so hard to protect – my dreams, my soul.  It’s far more dangerous to me than physical or emotional abuse in my mind and yet, here I am. Compelled to do the very things that frighten me the most.  If I’m not pushing past my comfort zone, it’s too easy to be trapped forever in the routine world.

Courage is not the absence of fear…and doing what I fear makes me stronger,  brings me better words.  Really, there is no choice.