I’m launching my website with very little knowledge of what will happen next. I have been told that authors must have a “presence” on the internet, and, although I suspect my website will be ignored be hundreds if not thousands of people, here I go.
I find great joy in writing. I have always written something, whether it’s poetry or short stories, or even journal entries. Looking back, what I have written in my journals over the years really were early versions of blog entries. At times, they kept me sane. I had a safe place to vent. Often recording an event of the day led back to a memory.
A paragraph written in black and white in my journal could crack open a forgotten time in my past, suddenly flooding back, faster than my pen could move. Ah the old days. Pen or pencil to paper. More difficult to edit with smears of ink, words lined through, tiny writing in the margins.
I’m left handed which makes a variety of things more difficult, but one element of writing in particular. As I move across the page, my hand drags behind me, ink smearing and skin well-marked.