A Space

Thank you all so much for your thoughts, prayers, support and love following my September post. The outpouring of connection and personal messages was more than I had ever anticipated. Feeling such a strong sense of community through writing is one of my ultimate favorite things. Thank you for being a part of my community.

Upon posting September, my little blog got 1,500 views in two days. I am a very open person, but I was nervous and anxious about sharing such a personal experience so broadly. However, it seems as though I struck a nerve. I firmly believe that we all have stories, and our stories deserve to be heard. It was beyond rewarding to know that my story helped even one person feel less alone. I hope in telling my story, I’ve helped others tell theirs.

After such a positive response, I am once again rededicating myself to this blog. The fact that I might even have some regular readers that aren’t my family is kind of awesome. So here’s to you, readers. I hope you stay!

I often struggle with finding the time to write. I think this is partially truly a time thing, but I’ve also found other things to do when I could have been writing, but I just didn’t feel particularly creative. Most of my blog posts come in the evenings, usually in my bed or on the couch with the T.V. on in the background. But today I forced myself to find a space. My very own writing space that is for writing and nothing else. I also forced myself to find a time. A holy time if you will — nothing else will be done in this time but writing. Today I purchased a desk calendar where I will plan out my blog posts and when they will be published. It all starts with a plan.

I have dreams of a fancy in-home office someday with superb art and maps on the walls, and a huge bookcase. I would write all of the things there. Just the space alone would practically produce a book. Just by existing and looking so freaking exquisite.

But I do not have a fancy office. And who knows if I ever will. So here I am in our guest bedroom sitting at the desk I’ve had since fourth grade. The drawer pulls are old and dated, and the bottom drawer is missing one entirely. The drawers have also been painted several times. For now they are black. The top surface is full of scratches, strokes of spilled nail polish, pen marks, stains and dust. But for now it is the home where my stories live.

I used to write essays, reflections and columns in college just for fun. About whatever topics I wanted to, and not just what I was assigned. I would occasionally send these to my parents. Just to have someone read them.

My Dad told me once, “I like what you’ve written. But even if I didn’t, you should always write. Even if it means nothing to anyone but you.”

So this is my space. For my words and for me.