Writing

 I am sitting in a public library 40 minutes from my house while my oldest daughter runs a Dungeons and Dragons for beginners program downstairs. She is really quite amazing at this and runs it at two different libraries now. I'm proud of her. I'm happy for her.

And I'm sitting here for 3 hours waiting for her.

Before I left my house this morning, I packed a bag with my laptop and charger, my journal, a book I was in the middle of. Then I left that bag sitting on my living room floor.

I was going to go for a walk and listen to my audiobook but I lost my earbuds a week ago.

I'm a mess.

So, I logged on to one of the public computers and signed in to this here old blog, and I'm writing. I'm writing. I know how to do this. I remember. 

There's something about writing that brings me back to myself, if only for just a few minutes. 

I still don't have a job for next year. I still haven't figured out how to make my teachers pay teachers store into a real business that replaces even some of my income. I still haven't read the 36 books I was trying to read for summer reading this summer. I still haven't become a steady working freelance writer, had an article published in any famous magazines, been randomly offered a book deal by a benevolent stranger who stumbled upon my blog.

I still don't know what I'm even looking for. 

But always, every time, it starts with this. It starts with writing. It starts with being raw and real and genuine and just putting all the words on the page and trusting that somehow, somewhere, I will find my way home. 

Hello world. Hello words. I'm here. For a few minutes, I'm home.