Looks like we made it



What's the difference between these writers and me?

My visceral reaction: What isn't different?

Look at them: you can see them. You can see their words and faces, touch the pages, press their minds and hearts against yours. They have their own paperback homes where they offer you a seat and a shoulder. They occupy space on your bookshelves and side tables and nightstands and desks. They come with you on planes and road trips. They are steadfast companions. 

They built something. They keep building. They minister to themselves and their people. They hear the call to write and answer it every day.

They show and tell. They offer themselves to you.
Whatever questions they have for themselves, they offer to you.
Whatever peace they have made, they offer it to you.

They live out loud.


...but don't I do this, too?
Don't I show you who I am, where I live, what I love?
Don't I offer myself to you?
I've just started to live in this (Square)space, but I've been documenting my selves for years. 
What's different now?


I am accepting myself and declaring myself: A writer.
I am treating myself like I deserve the title.
When I do, I'm responsible for and accountable to myself and this call to write and share. 

When I do, I remind myself that I belong.

I am not like these writers, and I am.