This will be the third time in my life that I’ve attempted to keep a blog. Possibly more if you count those half-filled notebooks from high school and cheap lock diaries from my K through 8 days. That’s what blogs are right, accounts of who we are?

See, I’ve promised myself, again and again, that I’d stick to it. Keep at it. Chronicle my innermost secrets, thoughts, and desires – showcase my flair for fancy words. Attempt to entice agents with my literary prowess (It’s in there, I swear). Yet, my journals always got abandoned for less intrusive projects. Projects in which I had an audience. I think it’s because I felt stifled by the idea of “journal” or “diary” and do indeed prefer an audience, which is why a blog is perfect; anyone can read it. Scary? Yes very, but I’m not afraid.

While I am one of the most intellectually lazy people I know (though half of two graduate degrees might try to fool you)  I’ve come to the realization that to be the writer I profess to be, I have to actually WRITE and MUST do so regularly. Without a solid blog following as I had back in the days of, gasp, MYSPACE, I have no audience – and my glory days of 2004 slip further and further away. It’s not that cool anymore that I won journalism awards in college – 7 years ago. It’s not that cool anymore that I won one sad little 2nd place fiction prize Junior year. No one cares.

So, I have to WRITE NOW. If I’m going to reignite that volcanic creative core that pushed words from me like hot lava, I have to WRIT E NOW. If I’m going to prove to myself, that I can, and WILL, complete an entire novel, from beginning to end, I have to WRITE NOW, TONIGHT, TOMORROW, and the DAY(S) AFTER. Yes, I am yelling at myself. I’m screaming so that I can hear MY voice. I don’t want the old “voice” back. I want a new one. (For those of you who aren’t familiar with writer speak, “voice” is the unique perspective and style each writer has) Now, I’m a little less lazy, a little more experienced, and very unsingle. I’m married now. 11 days a newlywed.

So here’s the paint with which to extrapolate the picture of my current life’s state. I got married to New Husband Brooker 11 days ago in Honolulu, Hawaii. A month earlier we bought a condo. In the same week, the condo closed, New Husband graduated from business school, and I struggled to complete 3 law school finals while working full time. I am a horrible law student. I read one out of every 10 case briefs. Notice I say briefs. Who has time for the entire case? Not I. If I’m not driving an hour each way to The Valley for work, I’m at a work out class, eating with New Husband, walking the dogs, or attempting to fold laundry with as much heart as I approach law school. So where will I find the time to “blog” religiously, to put up my best works for all the world to see? We make time for the things we love most.

FUCK. I’m doing it again. Writing as thought I have an audience. Writing as though someone cares. But, see I make the rules. I can publish this if I want. I can push that button. I can slice and dice it into poetry. That’s what’s beautiful about writing. It’s mine. Just like my occasional night terrors wherein I wake New Husband and both dogs screaming. At least once a month, this occurs. I awake in fear, sure that a man in the room has come to kill me. Wonder where that comes from? Childhood trauma? Too much caffeine. Maybe writing will help me figure it all out.

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