I haven’t written for a long time. 

A few years back there was a cyber stalker. It’s not hard with the internet to find someone wherever they may be. Their address. Mail them a letter. Take liberties behind a keyboard. Perhaps have one wonder if they could show up. 

It frightened me. When you write, or when I write, for a blog and send it off around the world, it’s impossible not to know that’s a possibility. But I never considered it a probability. Until it was real. 

I stopped writing. But I write because I can’t not write. Because there are ideas bursting out of thought and charging to my fingertips, then to paper or screen. 

It’s hard to put my writing down.  It’s where I sift my own thinking, and maybe assemble something worth sharing. Writing is how I pick through a mound of ideas and memories, sort, toss, keep, and donate. It’s where I hear my heartbeat. 

If it’s an extraordinary day, perhaps I’ll reach or teach or contribute to someone else. 

Each non-writing morning my mind scribbled as I showered. Sentences and paragraphs so good they would’ve delighted Wendell Berry or Nora Ephron. In my mind, where no one consumes my writing but me, I’m really good. As opposed to writing what others may read. That’s scary stuff. Self-doubt inducing. The addition of a far-off stranger who read, then wrote the particulars of my life back to me, as though I’d confided in only them, was haunting, flirting with terrifying. 

Now I’ve found a grain of courage, and desire. I will write again. Share again on my blog or even blogs. Sometimes I’ll be good and sometimes I won’t. Yet I’ll write and won’t be chased away. By me, or a stalker. 

I hope you’ve all been well. I have. And I’ll see you soon.