I’m trying to find my way back to the reflective writer I once was.
Funny thing is, she seems like another lifetime ago. I search for her in memories and imagine a woman who rose every morning to write. Yes, I sigh, she vaguely resembles someone I used to know but now aspire to become, once again.
Her tenacity tantalizes me. Her persistence pushes me. Her devotion delivers me.
So if the writer I once was had such an impact on me, then why did I leave her behind until her memory blurs like a woman in the mist? READ THE REST OF THE POST…
