The world does not need another blog, but I need it. I need to write but the idea of trying to get my work published paralyzes me. I would like to romanticize the Internet as the last bastion of lawlessness, where, for better or worse, anything can get in print. The problem is that everyone is doing it.

So I’ve resisted thus far. But I earned my degree twenty years ago and have published no more than a clever letter to the editor or two. It’s been nice to share work with family and friends, to take a class where my ego is massaged by professor and classmates (no pressure, no grades). I used to think maybe I could be happy being the person who writes funny emails or gives good quip at a moment’s notice. Maybe that could be enough.

I’ve denied and delayed but now face the choice: writing or the abyss. I guess this is worth a try. For me, writing is joy, my mind at play. The inter-cranial battle eases for a time. It shouldn’t really matter to me if anyone else reads it, but that would be a lie. My words will sit like a grain of sand on this virtual beach. I can imagine that a stranger will enjoy it. Maybe that could be enough.