the whys ...

If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that. -- Stephen King, On Writing

I've dreamed of being a writer since my sixth grade teacher Ms. Carpenter read the class a book about the lives of Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade.  Her words painted a vivid world of greasers and socs, families, friends, and enemies.  It felt so real to me that I cried when it was over.  I promised myself that one day I would do that too, create such an array of feelings in other people that they would be moved to tears of sorrow and tears of joy.  Twelve-year old me had all the time in the world to accomplish that dream. 

I celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday last Saturday, and I'm no closer to my dream than I was at age twelve.  As a young adult, I stopped reading and writing, struggling to juggle college, marriage, and work.  When my college years ended and marriage collapsed, excuses continued to follow me everywhere; there was always something more important than my writing ... or my reading, and my recurring mental illnesses plagued me, draining my motivation and creativity.

I'm creating this blog to give structure to my pursuit -- my literary dreams of becoming a writer and prolific reader.  Writing is work.  Reading is work.  I have to decide what's important in my life, making the choices to support those decision.  If I keep saying tomorrow, it'll never happen.