The terror of a fresh start.

The blank page has never been an enemy to me. My whole life I have had so much to write that I wrote in notebooks until my hand cramped, and later I poured out dated journals in Word files, wrote long “treatise on life” e-mails to my best friend, blog posts baring myself to strangers.

I had everything to get out about everything.

Yesterday and today I sat down with the intent of doing my work – writing.

Staring into that blank page felt like looking down the barrel of a cannon. Nothing here, seems like, but man if something comes it might just tear me apart.

Someone, at the height of my blog, when I felt like things were really getting rolling for me, asked me a question. She asked, “but what’s the point of a blog? Why are you writing all of this about yourself, and putting it out on the internet for strangers to read?”

For two years I had no answer for her. My answer at the time was, “I don’t put my whole life out there. I am not an open book. I choose what to share, and I don’t share anything that I’d be ashamed to talk to about to your face.” Because that makes it seem like I am sensible, like I know what I am doing, like I am not some little weirdo putting all of my guts out into the world.

I let her little question become a cloud, and eventually it became solid cloud cover. But today I realized, even cloud cover goes away if a good stiff wind blows through.

That wind is going to have to be me, this time. I do this because I can. Because when I don’t know what to do, and I feel weird and bad, the clacking of keys soothes me. Because I feel like I am sitting down with a good friend and hashing out my life questions. Because, when I sit down with this blank post window, I never, ever know what’s going to come out until it’s there in front of me.

And because it’s mine. It’s my thing, and if there is one lesson I hope I learn soon, it’s that if you have a thing, you HAVE to do it. Life doesn’t work right if you don’t.

For a lot of my life, I have let self-doubt and general weirdness and depression keep me silent. I felt like life was in the way, I felt like my dreams were too big and too nutty, I felt like the person I was becoming didn’t actually have a place in the world, so I needed to knock it off and pick a different path. I’m letting that all go now, in case you were wondering. I’m starting over.



Today is the special occasion.


A dear friend of mine brought these cards back as a souvenir from London in early 2006. I have packed and moved this deck of cards four times. I have kept them, in their original box and cellophane wrapping, in or near my desk for at least the past 5 years – but I never opened them.


I was saving them. I am a saver. Or, hopefully, I used to be a saver. Cool things, stickers, nice candles, cards, pretty paper. I save them for an upcoming special occasion. What that special occasion is, I don’t know. I haven’t encountered a special occasion in all of these years that requires my London Underground playing cards.

Until today. The special occasion could be the new year, but not really. I have a vague intention of learning to play poker this year. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Mostly, the special occasion is this: I was cleaning out my desk and thought it seemed pretty ridiculous that I’ve been hoarding a souvenir for a special occasion.

I remembered that life is short. I remembered that today is a special occasion because it’s here. Now.

I want to use up everything. It’s not a resolution, exactly, but hopefully a new mindset. I have so many lovely things in my life that sit in storage containers, drawers, and cabinets – all waiting for their special occasion.

It’s today. It’s tomorrow. It’s the next day. It’s March 12. September 27. Any day you can think of. Every day.