A beginning, perhaps.

So I’ve got this pen and an array of notebooks. Pretty pretty notebooks. And that pen, it’s pink. Hot hot pink. Hot like a hot chocolate with just-starting-to-melt marshmallows. But the notebooks are not written in. The pen hovers there waiting. The words never feel quite good enough. Will they go anywhere? I think at this point, it does not really matter. It’s time to take a plunge.

To find a voice.