I have been a writer since I was sixteen. The reason I make that claim isn’t so much a declaration of when I began to put pen to paper, but rather when I began to write with intent. I began a journal. Not what you might think of as a diary, full of stories about friends, fun times and boys (although to be truthful, that notebook did contain its fair share of thoughts any normal female teenager might have), but it was more a place I could record my own personal history, comment on current events and gather family data for a series of books I hoped, one day, to write. I was an amateur journalist, commentator and historian, and I took my efforts very seriously. I wrote every single day for nearly twenty years, and to this day, I still refer back to that journal when I want to remember something exactly the way it happened. Even at age sixteen, I knew the importance of recording the past, or in my case, the past and present. History was simply a beautiful and elegant stream of events, full of indisputable facts and amazing coincidences. That’s why the timing for my life’s project then was so perfect. I saw my writing as the ultimate freedom and a way for me to be both courageous and creative. So, on July 4, 1976, the 200th anniversary of our country’s independence, I wrote my very first entry.
Now it’s 42 years later and I’m celebrating another new beginning. It’s not by accident I chose today’s date for this post. I wrote an introduction to set this blog in motion, but this is my first official shout out to everyone. I’m here, I’m happy and I’m writing!