I'm sad today.
And I don't want to talk about it.
Well that makes this an awfully strange blog post doesn't it.
People I admire talk about writing dangerously. About writing for yourself. About putting yourself out there and writing the truth, raw as it is.
But I don't wanna.
People tell me I'm wise. They praise me for being self aware. They ask me how I always know the right thing to say.
And I always think, well the answer to that is stupidly simple. I just don't say anything at all until I know.
Do you want to know how I compose a blog post? I walk around my house talking to myself about it. I go over and over it in my head until the words sound right. Until I hear the point. Until I get what it is I really want to say.
Well, maybe not *this* post.
My writing isn't raw. It's cooked. It's burnt to a crisp in fact.
And I don't want to apologize for that. I don't want to write just for me. I want my writing to have a message, to have a purpose, to do something for other people. And I think that's a good thing.
But sometimes maybe I sound like I'm more finished than I am. Like I'm at the end of it all looking back. Like everything makes sense to me.
Like I don't need a hug.
And I do. I so do.