I've been feeling that little tug that says it's time. It happens every time I try to distance myself from the work. For the last few years I have had loads of excuses for not writing. I'm too tired. I'm uninspired. Scout zaps all my energy. There's so much to do around the house. And my favorite...there's no time.
And then it arrives, the need to buy a new journal, get a purple pen, and the urge to stay up after everyone else has gone to bed. Then the words come and they won't leave me alone. It's a phrase that I know is the beginning of something, or a word that begs for a partner and haunts my space.
The tug turns into a pinch, which turns into a brick wall in the face. Get back to work. This is my fate. The pursuit of beautiful nagging words that must be put together to become more than the sum of their parts becomes the very reason I exist. My muse, (hello dear Annabelle), has returned with a vengeance. And she's not leaving anytime soon.
I am here tonight because she made me come. I don't really know how all of this will turn out, except to say that it will turn out. And I will write here, and there, and in that new journal, with a purple pen.
This is just a beginning again.