I really am.
I have been neglecting you. And fear not, because it's not you, it's me.
It's the laundry piled on the floor. The dishes in the sink. The weeds in the garden and the constant battle against the wildlife that would gladly ruin it all.
It's spending time with family. Finishing that book I've been meaning to read. Going through Scripture so that I may never go astray.
And, of course, it's the words that I bleed onto digital pages through my fingertips. The stories I pour forth from my heart so that I might reach out across time and space and touch yours.
My hair is greasy. My stomach is growling. The laundry is swishing around in the machine. I sit here listening to my favorite music in the whole world. I am alone.
Writing is a very lonely profession.
Nobody ever admits that they are insane. Am I insane? I don't know. I live inside my head all day long, dreaming not only while I slumber but while I am awake.
An author dreams. We turn our dreams into stories and share them with you, because we love you from the bottom of our hearts. We want you to sink to the deepest depths of tragedy, and we want you to become filled with so much hope that you soar above the clouds into the sun.
I know that I am rambling. An author rambles. My head is filled with millions of thoughts that scream for dominance in my mind.
Sometimes I write them down. Like now.
I can remember the first time that a piece of art made me soar. I was sixteen years old--only eight years ago, for those who don't want to do the math. It awakened me. It opened my eyes and made me view the world in a way I never had before. I saw beauty in the tragic. I saw the bittersweet hope that too often is representative of real life.
And I can never, ever go back--not that I'd want to.
That is my hope. That my words--my stories--can change those who take the time to read them.
Who's with me?