A Mutant Offspring

Hello.

My wonderful grandmother wrote me this message just a few weeks ago.

I was cleaning out a long-overlooked (because it was hidden behind books) group of folders. What a treasure trove of memorabilia! One folder contained your early efforts of expression, 4th and 5th grade and a later one, undated. I spent an hour or so, reading those early compositions and was rewarded with a glimpse of the blossoming author.

A blossoming author, whose production peaked before puberty. Tragic, isn't it? Yet here I am, 22 years old, three half loved journals and a couple hundred letters to add to my grandmother's folder.

I find a clarity in words on a page that is absent from my own head. Still, journaling is a chore; it's the pit in your stomach when you feel like you 'should' do something and the realization that the labor would be unbearable.

So I'm going to try this out. A mutant offspring between my thriving dedication to letter-writing and my dispassionate relationship with a journal. Maybe only my wonderful grandmother will read it, but I know the joy it will give her is plenty to propel me to keep writing. Look forward to updates, episodes, musings & maybe ramblings. As long as I think people are reading, hopefully I'll keep writing and end this 10 year dryspell. If you do actually read, then that is just more than I could ask for.

Love always,
K