Rusty

As I start to write after far too long of a hiatus, I’m reminded of my closet door this morning and how it ached and complained each time I pressed open its hinges and it fought against the breeze of the ceiling fan.  It begged time and time again to be left alone, closed and undisturbed.

And as much as I love writing, after the siesta of summer and endless other excuses of a busy life, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m feeling very much like my closet door.  The insecurities are seeping back to the surface, and I’m struggling against this internal conflict-to write or not to write.  So here I am, pushing against the uncomfortable coolness of my thoughts and writing-something, anything.  And with each stroke of the computer keys I’m feeling a little more comfortable with being open and beginning this process again.  I love writing.

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