The truth is I miss writing.
A lot lately.
I miss writing in the way you miss autumn and New York City.
In movement and purpose.
I miss rereading everything I've written and ignoring the misspellings and lost words and just soaking up previous inspiration.
I'd like to say I stopped because I got boring, because I got busy, because I tried to become saturated by life instead of just observing it. All of these things are true but none of them are the deep down truth. The reason I can't seem to habitually bring pen to paper/keystroke to blogpost is based on fear. I'm so afraid of unintentionally hurting someone's feelings, of sounding pretentious or stupid and becoming way more introverted.
I'm afraid of the unknown.
I still have ideas though. I dream of quirky blog posts about my adorable loudmouth genius cat or tumblers full of my photographs or of written love letters and stories that move people or what it's really like being married to a chef. Instead they're just goals on a list that seems impossible to start let alone finish.
"It all seems impossible until it is done" -unknown
So I made an effort to start and we'll see how it goes because as I sit here outside on this gentle September evening writing on our balcony with my husband grilling up dinner...I know without a doubt that I've found my bliss again. Lets hope it sticks this time.
