It’s been a year since I stared at the blank pages of a notebook, alone on the deck at the family lake house. For decades, handwritten journals were as distant from my life as I had been from my mother.
I missed writing. I needed to write.
My writing roots go back nearly a century; both grandparents were authors. At age eight, I had set up a studio in the garage, a barnboard desk resting on sawhorses. My earliest tale, “Matt the Flying Dog,” quickly evolved to mystery stories, a stack of Nancy Drews for inspiration.
I’ve filled a dozen notebooks this past year. Daily writing is non-negotiable. I lay down the tracks of my life like a composer with music. Writing is both fun and terrible. And the days I don’t want to write make me realize I must.
