Noise competes for our creative soul. Clarity is somewhere the echoes of a silent room.

I cannot find spare words. Clatter invades even with my eyes closed. When I open them again life shrieks to be cleaned up, cared for, ordered.

This noise competes for our creative soul. Clarity is somewhere the echoes of a silent room.

The bare pages have waited for me to trust myself with words again. First words spill like heart ache.

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{I am a Witness. I have a Voice. I Intend to Use it.} Looking Back on Year Two of Being a Writer

There are moments when I hate what’s inside my heart, tarry and thick with things quite undesirable. Learning to be comfortable with yourself, and equally discontent in order to be transformed, is one of life’s most difficult lessons. I’ve just completed year two of “Being a Writer.” OTHERS As I have received affirmation from other writers […]

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