I just finished Beth Pickens’ book, and that has led me to begin this post. I haven’t written for quite some time, probably because I got so little response for what I had written years ago. No response, of course, leads one to believe that what is written isn’t worth reading. Pickens points out that such thinking is all in my head, is probably untrue, and besides, it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I write.

I have always been a writer when I stop to think about it. I remember as a grade school kid writing a story about early settlers in this country encountering Native Americans and a settler boy falling in love with an “Indian” maiden named Terrawanna. (My “girlfriend” at the time was Terry Warren.) I remember reading it out loud and ignoring the laughter that followed. What mattered was I had written it; I had created something that hadn’t existed before I put the words on paper.

Throughout my life, there have been moments when I wrote a lot, and moments when I wrote very little. But somehow, I’ve always returned to the pen and paper to express myself. And rarely do I share it with others. I realize that I write these words for myself. If others read it – OK. If others like it – OK. If they don’t – that’s OK as well. I’m old enough now to have no illusions about making a living writing. Acquiring money and fame are not incentives for me to do this thing.

And so I’m back – thank you, Beth Pickens. I make no promises to myself that I will write here regularly. If I do, great. If not, that’s OK, too. I have other projects at hand. I try to journal every day. I’m trying to finish a couple of book-length stories. I’ve added another writing class from Daily OM to my old-age activities. And so it goes.