You’re Interested?

So…you’re interested in my daughter?

Let’s talk.

Before you presume to take her hand and dare to make her feel warm inside, you must realize who I am as her Father. I will spare no effort or expense to protect her and guide her in finding the right man to share her life.

Carefully consider that any man who desires my daughter needs to discern her immense value as a woman. She is deserving of the highest, most sacrificial kind of love. Any man worthy of her will not need to be reminded of the treasure he holds, and he will approach her with all dignity.

I have some questions for you. The most important one is, “Is your heart soft and does it break easily?” If you can’t be broken, then you can neither be strong nor whole. You will only be a weak man who tries to conquer life in his own strength. Are you tenderized to absorb the hurts of another and respond with empathy and understanding? My daughter needs a man who will not hesitate to tenderly embrace her heart and dress her wounds with gentle care. It goes without saying that he will strive to not cause her any pain himself, but he will be just as diligent to kiss and heal hurts from others or memories from the past. To repay her for the pain you inflict is mere humanity; but if you spend yourself to dry her every last tear, that is boundless love.

Are you completely faithful? Outside the lines of public scrutiny or her keen observation, are you unshakably true to your love for her? When you close your eyes, is she all you see? Is your soul locked in? When you are all alone, who do you think about and desire? My daughter may never know, but you know. Indiscretions of the mind take the exclusive, passionate edge off of a relationship. Will you give my daughter the not only the best of yourself, but all of yourself—heart, soul, mind, and body?

Is your love infinitely deep? Will it not only survive, but thrive through the stormiest times? Or does it wane with the shift of the wind? Does it shrink back when things are not perfect, cowering to wade in shallow waters? Or does it go deeper still, fighting for the very core and truth of what love is? Can you promise to love during the most difficult challenges as well as happily agree to love my daughter in the happiest of times? Is financial achievement more important to you than sharing the bread of contentment with the one you love? Are age, health, fitness, and youthful attributes the sliding scales where you will determine her attractiveness? What is your gauge for the level of attention you will give her? Will you submit yourself to be filled with a heavenly love that will endure through the years, surpassing the fading of her beauty? 

Think about your answers to my questions before you answer. I’ll be waiting to hear…

I have heard your response, and I realize you might have wondered if I wanted your bold and supreme assurance that my daughter in in the right hands. I did not. Instead, I wanted to hear the contrite, humble voice of a servant, declaring his sincere inability to perform up-to-task. And within that same voice, I was searching for a man who knows his weaknesses, yet still has not hesitated to wholly place his love on the altar, sacrificing all he has and is. Even now, my ear is bent to hear if he is praying for the mercy, wisdom, and strength to love my daughter with abundance–because he knows it is impossible without that grace. You see, all my questions were only to see if you are a man who knows he is walking into certain failure, except for the certainty that laying down his life will more than make up the deficit.

I don’t care about your bank account, your position, your reputation, your social standing, or your worldly gains. I care about your heart. The man who will be allowed to carry my daughter away in his arms will have a heart saturated with compassion, utmost loyalty, and endless, unlimited love. So, here’s my last question: Do you love her just as I do?

Son, if you want my daughter to belong to you, show me that you love her like her Father loves her. I’ll be watching. Yes, all the time. I can do that. I’m God.

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Kiss the Cook

A few weeks ago, when I moved into my newly leased home, I found a well-worn, white kitchen towel hanging neatly on the oven door. Printed across it in faded red was a perpetual request: “Kiss the Cook.”

Although the dishtowel was as grayed and dingy as the tired saying, I left it right where it was and ignored it for several days. But as the boxes stacked around the kitchen were gradually emptied, those three words became a prominent focal point, finding their way to the pit of my stomach.

Whether you’d like to refer to “Kiss the Cook” as a suggestion, a command, or a wink of permission, it is an imperative statement. The implication is that someone in that kitchen wants to be kissed, and wants to be kissed now. There’s also the implication that someone else is around to get the hint and follow the instructions. In my case, as a single woman, there was not one manly soul around to smooch with the chef. The message just hung there, unheeded and suspended in limbo.

Back in the beginning, God said, “It is not good for man to be alone.” After Adam charted his domain, he became disenchanted with his incongruent relationship to all living creatures. It’s not like God didn’t know it would happen; it was just part of the plan. Adam understood the guttural loneliness of being alone without a counterpart. Maybe he was envious of the birds and the bees without comprehending why. Something inside of him told him that there was more. He ached for the touch of another like himself, yet he couldn’t begin to imagine what that beautiful being would look or feel like. Amid all the perfection of creation, something was still not quite right.

After Eve was fashioned from Adam’s rib, she opened her eyes like Sleeping Beauty, awakened effortlessly by the hand of God to life and love. She was promptly introduced to her destined prince. She was met with immediate companionship, an instant relationship, and the assurance that she was designed specifically to please and be pleased by this particular man. She never looked for love in all the wrong places or wondered whether Adam was indeed “the one”.

The mother of all life never knew what we modern women naturally expect in the boot camp of romance. We know there’s a mandatory longing for love and the pain of having to wait for it. If the gentler gender has any common connection with our foremother, maybe that’s why it’s typically more difficult for women to be alone. Somewhere inside of us, it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Sometimes, even a bit unbearable. We’re enduring what Eve never had to. And it’s not because we need prowler protection or someone to flip the breaker switch when the lights go out. It’s because our desire is set on loving and being loved.

The silly little towel served no purpose but to remind me of my wanton lips and the clearly absent man who will kiss me passionately someday, but I still left it hanging on the oven door. A week went past, and I even straightened it a time or two, just so it wouldn’t look haphazard. It grew on me, and I slowly began to see it as a cheery thought of what will be rather than a solemn statement of who is not in the kitchen with Gina.

If you know me through my writings, you know that discouragement doesn’t cage me for long. I tend to rally and rise back to the highest plane of hope and faith. Eventually, I always return to the landing pad of my future, looking up to the sky for the answer. So, I have to believe that on one certain day, I’ll be standing in front of that kitchen stove, whipping up home-cooked comfort food. I’ll occasionally feel that soft red and white dishtowel brush against my thigh as I stir something delicious in the pan. Then, some handsome man (of course he’ll be handsome!) will sneak up behind me. He’ll wrap his very deliberate arms around me and hold me silently in a sweetly firm stance. I’ll lose all concentration, drop the spoon from my hand, and turn around to gaze into his waiting eyes. And then, he’ll kiss the cook. It will be one of those landmark, freeze-framed moments extracted from everyday existence. I’ll be overcome by that first kitchen lip-lock of love, reminded that dreams really do come true.

As for now, whenever I’m making dinner for one, I navigate around that quaint, ragged dishtowel and continue to give it a place of humble honor.

S0metimes I think I can faintly hear him tiptoeing through the kitchen, even daring to come close enough to sigh his warm breath on the back of my neck. All I know is, he’s closer than ever before.

Soon, the cook will be kissed. And she’ll keep the red-lettered request hanging neatly on the oven door, hoping he’ll kiss her again…and again and again.

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Carrying the Promise

It was the beginning of an ultimate Mother’s Day, initiated by the fearful and holy presence of an angelic visit. Even more startling was Gabriel’s heavenly announcement. A pure, bewildered, young woman was surprised to hear that she would conceive the Son of God by the power of the Most High.

No, I’m not headed for a re-telling of shepherds tending their flocks by night. So, bear with me.

For some reason (because angels never do anything for no reason), Gabriel left Mary with a odd, parting sideline of information. He revealed that Mary’s relative, Elizabeth, was six months pregnant. That was the other startling news, because Elizabeth was very old and presumed barren. Proof, it seemed, that God could indeed create life miraculously.

As Gabriel left, Mary’s final response was, “I am the servant of the Lord. Let this happen to me as you say!”

Mary’s next response? She went to see Elizabeth.

Was it to make sure that she wasn’t delusional? If Elizabeth was indeed pregnant, then Gabriel’s visit wasn’t just a dream. Moreover, his prophesied words to Mary about her own conception must also be true. Seeing Elizabeth for herself was the one and only way that Mary could check her story. But, curiously, once her relative’s pregnancy was substantiated, Mary stayed with her another three months.

When I was a young woman standing at a crossroads in my life, I was overwhelmed with some new challenges looming in my future. A sweet but strong older lady gave me some advice. In the hushed rasp of an undercover spy, my friend leaned towards me and confided, “What you’re carrying a promise, go to someone who is more pregnant than you are.” With a knowing glint in her eye, she reminded me of those three important months of Mary’s life. It was the crucial time when Immanuel (God With Us) was being formed as flesh and blood. The blessed hope to save the world was growing inside of her, including the little hands that would touch, heal, and…yes, be crucified. We can only imagine Elizabeth’s role in preparing the way for Mary, just as later her son, John the Baptist, would prepare the way for Jesus.

I’ve never forgotten that.

Yes, there is such a thing as “more pregnant”. Logic reasons that you either are or you aren’t, but mothers understand the difference. Believe me, at two weeks past my due date, I felt a whole lot more pregnant than any other woman (or elephant) on the planet.

In this symbolic context, pregnancy represents carrying a promise until it is manifested. It’s about nurturing the vision within and cooperating with internal changes until there is travail and birth. And, like following a guide through a dark forest, one can learn the terrain just by watching the footsteps of someone leading the way by experience. She turns around to offer kind words of encouragement, calming the fear of the unknown. Like an Elizabeth, everything she’s already encountered can prepare a Mary to anticipate and navigate her own journey more smoothly.

I know what seeking someone “more pregnant” is not. It’s not grasping for favors from those with great influence. It’s not an excuse to gratuitously seek connections that will lead to better connections. It’s not an invitation to sap expertise or education from a willing teacher. It is nothing opportunistic and everything humble. It’s reaching for an inner impartation of strength, faith, and grace.

I’ve been mentored by several Elizabeth types over the course of my life. I’m thankful, especially because they seemed to show up with perfect timing, right when I needed them. My vision became clearer, and my steps became surer because of their influence. However, in my writing, I have not had the privilege of finding a close relationship with anyone who blazed the trail ahead of me. Golden authors and poets of the past have paved my heart with inspiration and awed me with their literary excellence. I even write about some of my author heroines in Falling in October, because I link everything I write with what I have seen, read, and heard. Iconic authors, musicians, and artists add a rich flavor to my life because their creativity stirs my creativity. Even more importantly, their passion stirs mine.

I certainly admire contemporary authors, and I consider some of them friends. But I haven’t met a true jungle guide with footsteps I want to emulate. I’ve been aided by those sympathetic enough to offer assistance in Twitter-ology or the complexities of e-book formatting. I’ve liked their page and they’ve liked mine. Yet, truthfully, my personal experience in the publishing world lacks an Elizabeth connection. Maybe that’s why I still feel that I’m stumbling in this arena. It’s not because I’m knowledge-challenged, because knowledge can be accessed. Somewhere inside of me, I think I’m looking for an Elizabeth who is more pregnant than I am.

This realization joins other ongoing introspections about who I am as a woman and an author. Why do I do and for whom? In the introduction to my book, I steadily proclaim, “….it doesn’t matter to me how many other people read my cache of feelings. I’m not worried about the bestseller list or a target audience. This is written to one man who will not be concerned with chapter divisions or my writing ability. When my poetry doesn’t rhyme or fall into perfect meter, he won’t even notice. He’ll just see straight into my heart as he recognizes me as the jagged piece he has been missing from his own picture.”

I’ve always written with purpose…and for love. I can’t diminish this to a marketing venture. Forgive me, but I just can’t. It’s personal. Will it cost me if I don’t cover the gamut of promotional bases? Probably. So, why am I so peaceful about that? Because I’m staying true to myself. My work is out there–getting to that point was the hard part. Beyond that, I’m happy just following the course that is best for me, even if it’s not best for business.

It would be nice to have an Elizabeth in my writing life. I’d love to closely observe a “more pregnant” author who would share her personal admonitions with me. I could discuss my gears of motivation and maybe she could turn her flashlight down my path and show me the next turn in the road. But, regardless, I’ll keep walking. With or without an Elizabeth, my footsteps are making their own imprint on this trail, and experience always brings it’s own wisdom. Maybe the light I find will lead the way for someone else. As we carry our promises, there are always those who are not as pregnant as we are.

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Imitating Life

Sometimes, 3:00 a.m. is a great time to contemplate the deeper meaning of life.  

A few weeks ago, I was half-dreaming at that wee hour when I was stirred with one of those sleepy, out-of-left-field thoughts. I awakened to the nonsensical illusion of a makeshift banner hanging over my head. In my mind’s eye, I read the headline: Art Imitates Life. Before I could think straight enough to question the untimely irrelevancy, the writing faded, only to be replaced with a new phrase. 

This time, it said: Author Imitates Life.

Now, that was altogether different. It was no longer a common blurb applicable to all mankind. It hit home. I was stunned by the cryptic message. It begged examination–and a response. I pondered, How could my identity as an author be mirroring my real life? My eyes were still closed, but my heart was already galloping off to the races with adrenaline to spare.

In line with my usual analytical default, I internally scanned my current situation. For several months, I had been plagued by numerous roadblocks in both my professional and personal life. As I sized them up, I observed an odd parallel between them. I never would have thought of it in the light of day. Yet when it dawned on me, it was just that clear.

I’d been absent from my blog for a few months. Blatantly absent, since I’m the sole proprietor and nobody is around to run the shop while I’m away. After hanging out the shingle of my heart with loads of intention, I went AWOL after only two posts. I’ll admit, I chastised myself more than once for not doing my homework. But, in the end, I gave myself permission to do what I needed to do. There was a time, you know, when the internet did not rule the world.

When my traditional marriage collapsed after three long decades, I had to tackle a new learning curve and adjust to single life. But within a short time, everything seemed to be on an upswing. I found a stable administrative job and earned a steady income. I completed the first draft of Falling in October, which was accepted quickly by a publisher. And, I found happiness in my personal life.   

In 2011, my book was released with little fanfare, but gained gradual momentum. However, due to what I will gently explain as “a mutual difference of opinion”, my publishing contract was dissolved. Honestly, it was truly for the best and I was left no worse for the wear. It’s not like I lost any Facebook friends over it (heaven forbid), and my labor of love (my lifeblood, my book) was still clutched safely in my arms. I just needed to entrust it to like-minded hands. Some of my zany, indie comrades with “you can do it” attitudes encouraged me to self-publish my book. It made sense. I couldn’t imagine more like-minded hands than my own, so I purposed to release it myself.  

But, there were complications. Other facets of my life had also gone downhill–coincidentally, within the same time frame as my book’s demise from the hallowed halls of Amazon dot com. For one thing, I had left my wonderfully secure job to move to another state, only to struggle with finding permanent employment. Stuck with sporadic, temporary positions, suffice it to say that rent and dinner took emergency precedence over the financial investment and energy to relaunch my project. My book was tabled and my blog went silent. I maintained baseline social networking only so I wouldn’t be totally forgotten. Simultaneously, my personal life took a crash dive as well. Both the author and the woman herself were facing equal disappointments. Author Imitates Life? Absolutely. 

If Scarlett O’Hara could envision Tara rebuilt from the ashes, declaring, “I won’t let it go while there’s a breath left in my body,” I could do no less. There’s nothing especially heroic about it. The flames of passion and determination can’t be quenched when you really believe in something. I had confidence in my path. I never even regretted the very life decisions that directly lead to my misfortunes. For me, monetary sacrifice had always proved its eventual worth. As for my book, I wrote Falling in October because I believed the message was a key to my life. I still believed it, and do to this day. And, I salute my personal life experiences, whatever the outcome. I am a diehard romantic, and I don’t apologize for pursuing love at the risk of heartbreak. Most of all, I have faith that God is leading me through life with lessons, love, and purpose–even when I am derailed by others or make questionable choices that land me in a ditch. He can’t be deterred, and is perfectly capable of dusting me off and putting me back on holy asphalt. He is always welcomed to rouse me from sleep at 3:00 a.m so we can figure it out.

For those who haven’t read Falling in October, it was inspired by my reinvention after that midlife divorce. It’s like a journal, contrasting my past thoughts about love with my new dreams for finding love again. I wrote it to the man I was praying to meet, even before I actually considered publishing it. In finding love at this stage of life, I knew there would be some catching up to do. I wanted him to know how and why I became the woman I am. Whether the book itself brings this man to me or I give him this gift after I meet him, I have a personal stake in this. I believe it’s a hinge on the door to my future.

So, I had to ask, Why all the glitches that drove my book into obscurity, and why the delays in making it visible again? I had embarked on a journey, sincerely believing I was on the right road. True for the author who sought to be published, and true for the woman in her occupational life and her search for love. Everything was moving ahead nicely until I ran straight into a dead end. I couldn’t back up to get back on the road because I was helplessly stalled. The author wanted to republish her book, but the woman had to get a real job to make it happen. Then, there was the shut down in my personal life and the residual condition of my heart. Had I been preoccupied with Mr. Almost Wonderful, only to emotionally bar Mr. Really Wonderful from gloriously entering stage right?

By the time I considered it, the golden Arizona dawn had crept over the palm trees. I was wide awake, still making the connections. And writing them down, of course. Author Imitates Life. It was true. Gina Gates, the author, was reflecting back the images of my real life. It was all connected. I suspected that as the hindrances were peeled away from my breathing reality, my writer persona would find her way through the publishing jungle back to the Amazon (dot com). The divine comedy is that serendipitous destiny and perfect timing are the major themes of my book. Yes, God has a highly intelligent sense of humor.

As it turned out, during the past couple of months, I have secured and settled into a permanent job. I finally scraped together enough quarters for the small cost of republishing my book. Both the Kindle and print editions will be released this week.

The woman who is waiting for the love of her life continues her journey, and the author mirrors her steps. It’s yet another chapter in the continuing story. More than ever, I believe in storybook endings and happily ever after. Yet, Falling in October doesn’t end that way. In fact, it doesn’t have a conclusion at all. It ends with an ellipsis…a fade into the next scene.

That’s where you’ll find me, watching stage right. Closely.


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My October

I never liked October.

When I was growing up in Texas, fall was not a full-fledged season. It was a nominal gap, wedged between the extended summer and Thanksgiving, serving only to offer a belated chill to football weather.

In my young world, there were two kinds of leaves—green and brown. Mother Nature wasn’t afforded the temperature nor the time to awe southerners with the same dazzling colors that adorned a northern October. The fall trees in my own back yard didn’t remotely resemble those tiny torn pieces of ragged red, orange, and yellow construction paper neatly pasted onto a bare, cut-out tree. My elementary artwork had no bearing in reality.

During my later sojourns, I did occasionally experience the wondrous effects of climates with four distinct seasons. I discovered that scarecrows in cornfields are for real and fresh apple cider is to die for. I also saw for myself that autumn’s metamorphosis could be startlingly beautiful. Because I had to wait years to finally see it, the brilliance of an authentic fall seemed over-animated, like waking up in Oz after living in black and white.

When I crossed the threshold into the autumn of life, it was with the same droll fanfare as the crunch of dry prairie grass under a cowboy boot. I never liked October anyway, and I certainly didn’t like this one. After expecting to finally reach a season of reaping sentimental rewards, I instead faced the symbolic pictorial of a Texas autumn. The remnants of a marital lifetime that was once was lush and growing had withered and fluttered aimlessly to the ground in grievous disarray. That resulted in a midlife divorce plopping me flat on my back, squarely into the middle of that pile of dead, fallen leaves.

From that coarsely pillowed spot on the ground, I had nowhere to look but up. Then, I was caught up in one of those tornado-like mental whirlwinds, where past events and familiar faces spin around until they converge to create one picture that’s worth a thousand words.

I arose from my sleepy-eyed daze to find myself living in a different kind of October. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I was still the same woman and I hadn’t gotten any younger, yet it felt like a timeless moment. The once willowy branches of my pillaged dreams were now bursting with bright and varied colors, boasting their bold artistry. The sights and sounds of an autumn harvest overtook my heart in sweet anticipation. I knew it was coming. No. I knew it was here.

That’s when I fell in love. Not with a clumsy cardboard depiction, but with the full-seasoned experience waiting in my October. I had to see the hidden potential in the autumn of life before I could believe the beauty of the benefits.

I remembered how those Texas autumns tiptoed between summer and winter like a boring intermission. Then I recalled those few times I was privileged to see autumn at its golden best. I knew wholeheartedly that as a woman in her third season, my own October deserved a big spotlight on a glorious stage, flaunting that generous bounty and entirely lovely cascade of accoutrements.

Now I can only embrace all that October can be…and will be. Autumn has become my favorite time of year, because it represents all the richness life can bring. I love my October. It is my season of hope, and I have faith that it will also bring a time of abundant love.

GG♥

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“I Wanna…”

Welcome and Hello! I’m here to share my life, faith, and quest for love in my autumn years. With the brand new release of my book, Falling in October: A Season of Hope, A Time For Love, I wanted to expound on my journey. I hope you will join me. For me, “Writing in October” is a feat and a pleasure all at once. As a woman with two seasons behind me, I have a backlog of experiences to fuel a blog. But I also want to walk in my highest purpose. So, know that every word I write here is coming from the uttermost depths of my heart. 

 

There’s a popular commercial that begins with depictions of various people from different walks of life engaged in tedious office duties, yard work, and household chores. Nothing to capture the viewer’s eye, except that these laborers are all wearing motorcycle gear and helmets as they perform these ordinary tasks. In each scene, a forlorn soul trapped in a droll existence begs to the camera like an abandoned puppy, “I wanna ride!” Then, cue the catchy, rockin’ jingle: “I wanna ride, I wanna ride, I wanna ride, I wanna ride!” Fast and furious freedom bursts onto the screen in pulsation to the beat. Board members and housewives hit the open road on their blazing motorcycles, rebelling against empty servitude and confinement.

I can relate.

When I was a preschool-aged child, I loved the sound of certain words. When I discovered one I liked, I’d repeat it over and over again, savoring the inflections and letting the sound run across my tongue like a connoisseur at a fine wine tasting. I couldn’t read yet, and I wrote my J’s backwards, but I was already fascinated with the palpable power of the English language.

Even when I did learn to write, I didn’t. I took piano lessons, rode my bike, and joined the Girl Scouts. I wrote when my teachers said I had to. I thought everybody could write just as easily as they could read. Never mind that my sixth grade teacher confiscated my creative writing assignments and informed my parents that she was keeping them for herself. Apparently, she saw something special in me, but she never told me. Nobody told me. I wish they would have.

As a teenager, besides accessing my writing skills at school, I occasionally wrote about my awakenings in love and spirituality. I didn’t think of myself as talented. I was just a girl who was willing to mull over the contents of her heart. Maybe that in itself was a gift, but I didn’t realize that either. Later, college didn’t even make me smart enough to connect with the waiting writer inside of me.

Because this is only a blog and not a book, suffice it to say that from there, my adult life did not revolve around prolific bouts of writing. I graduated from letters to e-mails along with the rest of the world’s populous. But, no, I did not write extensively or for an audience.

I fell backwards into publishing when I was asked to write a book review for a magazine. It paid only twenty-five dollars, which didn’t explain why it elated me in a way that writing a book review shouldn’t. It felt a little too good, so I pushed it aside. Real writing was for glamorous dreamers with feather boas and people who didn’t have a basketball team of kids to raise.

Eventually, editing opportunities trickled to me; then, some copywriting gigs. It was off and on. Finally, I wrote a book that achieved limited acclaim, but I considered it a one-time venture. My focus was still on family and spiritual pursuits. My writing continued to be a personal accessory, used only for festive necessities like Christmas cards.

When my life did a one-eighty that dropped me into the middle of the raging sea (read Falling in October for the story), my ofttimes buried love of writing floated to the surface and became my life raft. I rested my weary feelings on that safe pillow, clinging to it in the storm like a strong, old friend. That life raft took me to shore, where God used writing to give me the land legs to stand on my own two feet again. Who needs therapy when writing so perfectly displays both your prayers and the clarity of their answers on the same page?

They say there’s no such thing as an overnight success. A talented actor or rock star will seemingly materialize out of thin air; but the truth is, toil and trouble preceded that grand entrance. I’ve got that “toil and trouble” part down pretty well. So far, no red carpet has been unrolled in my direction, but notoriety is neither the point nor the goal. The point is that I’ve come by this slowly and honestly, starting when I pondered my first fifty-cent word at age three. The goal was never a goal at all, and still isn’t. It’s just the final acknowledgment of a meaningful gift. I’ve kept it on the shelf for the majority of my life, so maybe it’s time I relieved Mr. Shelf of that tiresome duty. I’d like to adorn him instead with a few treasure-filled volumes, written in collaboration with the talent he lovingly held in reserve for me. I bet he’d like that better than a bow tie.

For years, I didn’t dare step outside of reality to tap into my creative imagination–not the way I was meant to. Even more astounding is that I actually lived an eventful life that was anything but run-of-the-mill. Why didn’t I write about my significant experiences the way I could have? I don’t know. Was I just too busy to think about it? I just know I can’t say the dog ate my homework. But now, after monumental upheaval and reinvention, I can finally identify that perpetual, whimpering sound. It was that sensitive, abandoned, brown-eyed puppy in me…all along, begging, “I wanna write!

Here it is–the open road. Time to hit it with an exhilarating, fast and furious freedom. In pulsation to the beat, rebelling against empty servitude and confinement, I’ve embraced a grand purpose and my ultimate adventure. Cue the catchy, rockin’ jingle: “I wanna write, I wanna write, I wanna write, I wanna write!”

GG ♥


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