I have been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a writer, to live the writing life of examination and sacrifice. I know I haven’t posted in a very long time, I also know that nobody seems to give a fuck, and that is OK with me. The last two months have been full of change, full of meaningful connections and lingering doubt, and full of writing about all of it.
My philosophy on writing has remained the same, static, while nothing else has. I have come to the conclusion that a life of examination means nothing without action, and I have learned how to love fully and completely again.
I will be posting more often, yeah I know promises promises…
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