I am a writer. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. I recently found journals from when I was 17, helping to prove this statement. And that’s kind of the point — proof — and what writers believe is proof.

When someone asks me what I do, I say, “I’m a writer.” Then that person gets this excited look, and usually says something like, “Really? What do you write? Would I have read anything you’ve written?” Which is quickly followed by the slightly crestfallen look said person tries to hide when I reply, “Well, the writing that pays is for Federal proposals. But I’ve had a blog and have several unfinished novels.”

Of course, that makes me feel like I’m pretending to be a writer, that I’m not really a writer unless I’ve been published by some outside entity as a stamp of approval.

I’m here to tell you that’s just not true. Though as I’m telling you this, I’m also telling myself this. I need to hear it too. So let’s keep saying it to ourselves, over and over, as the words spill out on paper in a Comp Book journal, or on screen in response to Requests for Proposals, or on the back of receipts at a stoplight because you know you’ll lose that melody of words before you get to your destination, or as a note in your phone when you compose a poem driving down a mountain in the dark of summer.

My past blog chronicled simply that — my past. It had a healthy following and was freeform, for the most part, as this one will be. I started it 15 years ago, when blogging was just rising to the forefront of consumer consciousness. It held poetry and prose, and documented life, divorce, betrayals, deaths, and thoughts. I tried to return to it, but it never felt right. So I’m starting fresh, just as I’m now making some fresh starts in my life. Because fresh starts are hard and beautiful and best shared.

I do hope you’ll join me.

P.S. I’m also a photographer, so – bonus – I’ll share some images with you as well.