A friend recently reminded me of this fabulous quote by Ernest Hemingway:
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
As I’ve wrestled with the sight of my own blood, I have shied away from writing most of the real stuff in me. I’ve been cranking out canned garbage and it’s killing me. Call it fear, call it weakness, but some part of me just won’t own the deeper stuff out loud. But, I can’t write weak anymore; it’s untrue.
Here, I’m going to attempt to write the real journey… so, I humbly share an as yet, unresolved life: eager to be honest, yet starting quietly, trusting that you will let my words spill out and know they are not words of judgment or criticism towards anyone else, just the process of an evolving heart.
Let this little place be like a bucket where I collect the things that are mine with open hands, and maybe there will be a treasure or two that will bless you too.