So – the birth of another blog… The genesis of another collection of bits… ones and zeros, tossed into the void in the middle of the night.

As if I hadn’t been here before, a dozen or more times now, ready to scribe the next anecdote to, and for an audience of yet imaginary readers. Write it and they will come – at least the bots will…
That much is certain…

For years I’ve wanted an aggregate site that could serve as a catch-all for the impulsive flood of words that pop into my head concerning any of a variety of subjects. I see things, or attempt them, or rehearse attempting them in my head – and I want to write about them. I feel a compulsion to write. As if it bears some importance, some interest to my mythical audience. I write to them. They sit quietly in the theater before me, anonymous, silhouetted in shadow and expressionless, awaiting my next article, or snippet.

I entertain the idea that I may at one point entertain them. It seems so foolish, or childish at times, but that audience is often what keeps me writing. Or at least keeps me coming back to the table to try.
At some point, some day, I may win their approval. The lights may come up in the theater, and I might finally see some of their faces.

I’ve been “writing into a void” for many years now. Anecdotes, anemic attempts at short stories, poems, meanderings, things that were written internally that never made it to paper, pages that were torn to pieces or deleted in their entirety. So much lost, or misplaced, or foisted upon an apathetic, disinterested and mostly non-existent social media audience. So much poured into writing things that most people would never see.

Yet, knowing this – I insist on writing.

A wise person (or two) told me, “in order do something – and certainly to ever do it well – one must actually pick up the pen or brush or instrument and just do it.” Or, more simply, “In order to get over one’s reluctance to do something – one must just do.”

It seems simple, certainly to read it. Yet, let self-doubt, fear of failure or ridicule germinate, and eventually take root – and all the creativity a person might have will forever remain sealed up in dusty old boxes cluttering closets and attics.

The world will be denied your contribution and worse, you as a creator of things, if overcome by said fear, will be destined to live in a world where it feels as if you are shouting at passers by from the bottom of a pool. They’ll be there – walking by. They might momentarily glance down at you, feigning interest. But they will never hear you, nor understand what it is you’re trying to communicate.

This is my world. My distilled version of what it feels like at the apogee, watching my inner self trying to scream through the weight of the water, knowing full well my air is a finite supply. Much time was lost over the years during periods where I’d fall silent, electing to sit, quiet on the outside and conserve my breath.

So at least for now – I stand defiant in the face of such things – and elect to create. To write, to paint, to draw, to sing, to make music, to love, to feel, to once again, even if momentarily, breath in air from the surface.

Let there be light…