Writers write. That’s why I’m here. Doing a blog I mean, not here on the Earth, I don’t think, maybe.

I’ve always wanted to write. Wait for it…here’s the cliche now…ever since I can remember. Really though, I was in first and second grade when I started crafting stories. I was the writer and director of our sixth grade play, The Banana Bunch!

I am adopted, I’ve always known, so have created stories about where I come from, about who my parents are, about why they gave me up. The stories didn’t always have happy endings and I wasn’t always the hero or even the leading role. But my life, no, my lives, were rich. I want to write and set these stories out into the common shared space so that someone might “like” it or connect to it, or feel comforted by a word or a turn of phrase or a sentence or idea or the spirit of what I’ve written. That’s what has happened for me so many times; I will read what someone has written and it so clearly describes what I am feeling or thinking and it’s a comfort to feel not so alone.

I want to write, in hope of holding on to something. Even writing that sentence makes that hope seem not only futile but so unnecessary. But I have hoped more for less. I have been changed so much by life on life’s terms in these past few years that I feel I’ve lost, or maybe more accurately, let go of, some of the best parts of myself. I wonder if writing, if fanning the spark of this old old dream will help me to reclaim those parts of me that I miss?

And why not write right? Why not add my voice. Given some of the voices who get a much bigger megaphone than me, with less to say, I’m just saying, I certainly can add my voice. I’m excited to be starting.

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