Writers, I believe, experience writing as an ebb and flow of creation, versus a steady stream of content. We encounter barren spells. We sit them through. Our fingers itch with stories to tell. Then, we write.

After I closed, I spent some time mourning the space and its place in my life. I knew she was closed for good, and (eventually) I would need to sort out the next home for my writing. It took some time to say farewell, to lose my voice, and to find it again.

I love to write. The methodical rhythm of fingers to keys helps me to learn, to understand, to tease out the why. I’ve written pieces that make me smile, years later, and others that make me cringe for all the darlings I refused to kill. Not everything I write I enjoy, or am even proud of. But each piece carries me from one point to another, and helps me to understand myself, if only a little bit more, and better than I did when the screen was blank.

I needed to find a new home, and I began my search for temporary occupancies to build something permanent. I took more photos, and annotated them in detail. I wrote privately and found these entries curious and even indulgent; my usual slash and burn editor on strike in a closed forum. As time passed, it didn’t feel right, sending these letters into the private void. Nor did just annotating my life through toss away vignettes.

It seemed more and more likely that my home would be a place like this, full of friends and strangers who become friends.

I love when my words lead to conversation over email with a stranger. I love when an old blog post reappears in my inbox through a thoughtful comment, years later. I’ve been saddened by the emails that arrive, asking me why I stopped writing, and sadder still that they sit unanswered. And because I have fondness for a good retrospective, I even missed digging through archives and remembering the who and the what and the why.

My sometimes-trepidation (unfounded or otherwise) is about publicity and writing without self-censorship—indeed, the only way I know how. But as I have often contended—we are human and we tell stories in order to survive. Most of them are meant to be shared, so we may figure this all out, alone and together, and alone, together.

I hope you will come along as I wade through what’s next, to weave your stories with my own.

(Photo: Bougainvillea, my own)

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