There was a time when writing was my everything. It was plays. It was poems on napkins. Term papers. Thesis. Stories. Beginnings of novels. An agent. You could say I was on a track, on my way.
And then something changed, something happened and writing moved further and further from my center. Health challenges, a devastating fire, finances, you name it. The depression I had managed to stay well ahead of finally reached out and grabbed me by the ankles, and I went down for the count. You could say my voice was silenced.
I have a long-time friend, Judy Bolton-Fasman, a memoirist, and I admire her courage and honesty as a writer. I’m not used to writing about myself and my life. I’ve never had that kind of courage. But I’m going to cultivate it even as I continue with fiction. I’m going to go for broke, you could say.
Even now, as I write, I wonder if I should link this blog to my Facebook account. I don’t know. I haven’t decided. Twitter, yes, where I have more anonymity.
But for now, I begin.