from the beginning

I have strangers as followers. I have over 100 pageviews a day. And checking my stats and my comments has become like a drug to me. I sound like I'm boasting. I'm not boasting. I'm grateful, flattered, and humbled. It wasn't until about 2 years ago that I even thought about writing as a career or passion. On my first date with my now husband, we talked about being "writers". We talked about how freely words just come out from us, like something supernatural that we have no control over. We talked about how our writing is one of the most real places we know. A week later, I got serious about writing. He lit a fire in me that said 'writing is a gift, a passion; use it'.


Now, after a couple of crappy months (sorry, it's true) we're sitting in a local, Italian, coffee shop. He's listening to the gathering of 50-somethings playing banjos and cellos. It's folk music so, it's funny to me. In a respectful way, of course. He's also watching the sports TV at LoDo' (it's large enough to see across the parking lot) and gulping a caramel macchiato. I'm sipping a Venetian Latte (sounds mysterious and sexy to me; and it's oh-so tasty) and writing the beginnings of a novel. The fireplace behind is keeping me warm and causing my eyes to drift shut a little. But, this book, it's going to be a good one...

“ I need you to keep me from running.”

People talk about lumps in their throats like they talk about calories in their lattes. Common, anticipated, even ordinary. This was no ordinary, anticipated, common lump. I knew what I was going to say to him. I had written it down and thrown it away. Written it down again, in an altered version, and thrown it away, again. Fourteen pieces of scrap paper later, I had concluded that this was the best way to start. This was the best place to begin given the situation I had fallen into.

Fallen into. That’s not really correct. I walked here, chose this path, made these decisions. But the outcome was supposed to have turned out a little differently. Which, in reality, is how things always are. We picture them differently, imagine them better, remember things less awful than they were, and compare everything to how we think it should be.

How selfish. How naïve.


And it isn't this dreary. It gets funny, and fun.


Her name is Leah and she is weary, like the meaning of her name. In this story, she's going to go through a huge up and an even bigger down, and come out on the other side a changed, spritual woman.


It may never be published, or it might be. Either way is okay with me, because I like her. She's spunky and spirited, but grounded and pure. She's cracks a funny joke, and cries some pretty fierce tears. I really like her. And I'm going to write her way through this. As a way of creativity, as a way of healing, as a way of hope. Each day, she'll provide a little insight, a lesson or two. And in the end, she'll provide a memory of where I've been and where I want to be.


Thanks, hubby, for reminding me that I have a passion and a gift.