Permission to dream

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Dear M,

You're scared. And I get that. It's terrifying being on the verge of doing something you've dreamed about for years not knowing if you'll make it through; if you'll find the right words; if anyone will even care when it's all said and done.

So do something for me. Make a list of all those doubts. Put them down on paper. Let ink bleed from pen like blood gushing from a vein. Get it all out of your system and once it's out, let those doubts stay on that piece of paper because you don't need them. Rip it up. Burn it. Tuck it away in a secret spot.

Then, give yourself permission to dream.

A love letter...

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Dear blogging,

I miss you. A lot. I hate that we don't spend time together anymore, and I'm a big enough person to admit it's completely my fault.

See, I've been writing - seriously writing - for years. Well over a decade, in fact. It started in high school when my creative writing teacher got me addicted to writing in journals. Fifth period became my favorite part of the day, where I'd spend the 48 minute class pouring my soul onto paper...a practice that would usually bleed over into sixth period pre-calculus and probably didn't do my steady-B-that-could-have-been-an-A-if-I-just-applied-myself any favors since I spent most of my time making sense of the thoughts in my head rather than sense of the numbers that didn't compute.