Gone, gone, gone.

I knew this would eventually happen, just as any eventuality in life which we have given our permission to—whether consciously or unconsciously—may come to pass at some stage or another. I had chalked it up to “circumstances a professional writer must come to terms with and know how to deal with,” if they are truly to be considered a professional. There is, therefore, something attractive, albeit inconvenient, about this one particular eventuality, because it makes me feel like I am doing something real and that I am conscious of the realness. Something that makes me feel like a grown-up woman, living in the world in a sophisticated way…

Yet, it’s not really so cinematic as all that, for really I only went to a party this evening and stayed until the end, and now it’s way past bedtime and I have to write something down though I’m not sure what I want to say. Yet. 

Part of the charm of this blog (I hope you find it charming, dear reader) is the unapologetic backstage aspect on the journey to becoming a truly professional writer; a writer who writes everyday, because it’s both a practice and a calling. I hope you find it interesting to see how the inner workings of this process influence what gets put onto the page.

And it’s come to my attention that maybe more people are starting to read this stuff now, which makes it tempting to try and mold myself into something that I think I ought to be. Something that sounds polished or fully realized.

But the other part of the charm of this blog is that, that ain’t why we’re here.

Shit gets written. Shit gets edited. Life goes on. Rinse and repeat.

And I’m kind of getting addicted to it. All this striving, reaching—grasping for some shooting star. The sense of purpose and meaning are like an addictive drug. I can’t go without this feeling, ever again. Never again can I sustain an existence without this driving sense of striving to answer a calling.

And my feeling is that, through daily practice, I will have lubricated the various parts of the engine well enough that maybe more meaningful stuff will start to generate.

I’m aware that my ramblings sometimes aren’t particularly meaningful, and sometimes can seem like a means to an end. The ticking of a box. I hope it doesn’t come across that way to you because this blog never feels that way to me. Merely, there is the faith that in arriving to the blank page—and by “arriving” I mean really showing up, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health…—something purposeful will always come through. Even if it’s subtle. Even if only one reader, 6 months from now, feels seen or moved or finds the humor in what’s been said. 

It’s always worth it for that one person.

They’re the beacon that drives me onward.

And even though today was truly eventful, and many important and illuminating and enlivening conversations were had, tonight is not the time for a blow-by-blow.

Merely a nightcap offering on a hot Sunday in July.

Wherever you are, however you’re feeling, I’d like you to know that you could be that shooting star—that driving beacon of hope—that keeps writers like me going, going, going, until the fire in our breath and the light behind our gaze one day is gone, gone, gone…