She said, “I want to write every day in May. Not just in my journal. I won’t do that “kind” of writing, writing meant for my eyes only. I want to continue to write what is true for me but couched in a way, hopefully, that others will understand it.” She challenged me and many others to do the same. To see what might happen. Just to see. And something inside of me said, yes. Yes, I will do this. Despite the fact I’ve not written anything for years. That is, nothing I’d even want to show you. Quite honestly, other than scribbling nonsense in my journal, it hasn’t been possible for me to write. Not like I used to. Not in the giddy, fluttery flow of irrepressible words. Not with any urgent impulse to express. Three years ago, I used to sit for hours at Rough Draft and words upon words would pour onto pages and pages in my spiral notebook. Words about Having. Beauty. Love. Lack. Desire. Daily amazements. It was a rush, a delight, to write in this way. I loved words and they loved me, and we would play for hours together. But in June of […]