I am a writer.

I know that I am. I can picture myself at seven, poring my soul into my journals, pencils scratching the page late at night, hiding under covers. Tucking my prized floral cloth-covered diary with gold embellishment safely under my pillow.

Dear Journal.

DJ, I called them. Like the wise eldest sister on Full House, who reminded me of my perfect older sister.

Like Anne’s window friend, Katie, wise and steady. Silent and non-judging. Always on my side.

Like the older brother I never had.

I’d listen to my poet-father’s typewriter clack-clacking late into the night, assuming everyone loved books and stories and laughter the way we did. When older, I would dive into the lyrics found in my favorite cd covers. Heart pounding, I’d dig for the song that held the perfect line, and pore over every perfect letter.

The song lived on repeat and you would find me on my bed, tracing fingers along the pamphlet, folded edges worn and fuzzy from so much handling. I’d memorize every moment.

I loved the way words spun a story, the way they fused together to make a song.

I still love words. How they move us, how they mold us.

And now into my thirties, I am moving forward with writing in clunky, toddler steps. Asking my perfectionist self to step aside and opening the window for creation.

I know it’s going to be a long road, and I don’t know what will come of it.

But what I DO know is that I am a writer. I have always been. And opening my heart and dancing with words again is a great adventure I must depart towards.

Elizabeth Gilbert (one of my many heroes) says that done is better than good. So I’ll keep this up- even when it’s tricky or when I don’t feel like it or when I’m not entirely sure where it’s landing.

Thanks for coming along.