slowly. quietly.

This whole blog thing has been an interesting endeavor. I still wonder if I'm o.k. with the fact that my words are out here. Out there. However, something tugs me back into this void of blogland. Something vulnerable and frightening. Some sort of addicting excitement.

I've been reading about writing. Today. Yesterday. Last week. I came across some old English packets from Lake's class, chapters from "Learning to Fly" and "Art and Fear," both of which I have read again since senior year. I tucked them into my bag before I left my parent's the other night, excited to re-read and re-learn; to re-discover.

By referral, (thank you Betsy at King's English) I am also reading ,"If You Want To Write," by Brenda Ueland. This is a gem of a book. It's been a literary kaleidoscope these past few days, shifting my thought-pattens ever so slightly, letting light sparkle in the symmetry. Something I already feel so passionate about is mirrored by Ueland's encouraging instruction. This book has opened my eyes, much like Lake (and all her glorious packets!) filling the entire field with new colors and patterns.

These past few days, days, when I've never written so much and never been so frustrated with my outcome, I've needed somewhere or some thing to turn. Here in my hands is this great kaleidoscope of a book, which, with every turn of my wrist, bravo's! my seemingly peewee efforts and gives me just enough light to hope one day, for the brilliance of a full spectrum.