The Right to Write

There is something about spring that makes me want to do things.

Maybe it's the feeling of anticipation, like spring is quietly creeping up on me, but instead of jumping out with pointy teeth bared, it just sprinkles me with warm bits of sunshine and unicorn smiles like so much ethereal confetti.

So, I've been feeling restless.

Which is probably why I rearranged the kids' bedrooms this morning. And while I screamed and doubled over as I smashed my fingers trying to reassemble a bunk bed, it was strangely satisfying. Like my pain and blood reminded me that I'm alive. And that I like moving furniture.

And I want to write.

I've felt empty of words the last couple of years, and so blogging has been difficult.

I think because I was pouring myself into my writing: all my experiences, joys, sorrows, failures and triumphs.

You can only do that for so long before you have nothing left.

Is it possible, then, to write and be filled?

To write so that your heart and soul swell with fullness?

I'd like to think so.

I want to see if I can.

Would you join me?

I want to write with other writers.

Play off of each other on this wide, gossamer of thoughts that is the internet.

Ask questions, both stupid and hard ones, and, by golly, answer them, and revel in the mess that will undoubtedly ensue.

To think.

And to think with others.

So we can fill each other's souls with words and thoughts and companionship.

And we can draw dumb pictures for each other.

It'll be fun!

So join me!

Between the likes of you and me we can have all sorts of adventures!