“I’m a writer.”

That’s how I, 23 at the time, answered a retiree when he asked what I did.

At that dinner event, getting to know our tablemates, I eventually shared what I did to earn an income but he stopped me and said that my first answer was my truth. We continued talking well after most guests had left, mostly about how he regretted chasing dollars instead of joy in his youth but also about why I answered the way I did. His was a cautionary tale I shelved to remember “later” but quite frankly, ignored until recently.

I buried my truth by admiring other writings and voraciously reading. (Seriously. I read 210 books in 2023 alone…)

So, many years later, here goes my attempt to peek out from under the excuses I’ve frozen into place over time in my own chase for all-the-things-I’ll-eventually-write-about-here.