It is said that there is nothing more difficult than a blank page. It gleams, defying you to make order out of possibility. A doodle? A poem? A dirty limerick? A novel? Heaven forbid!
For quite some time, the blank page has made a fool and coward out of me. No more. Quitting time was five minutes ago, so, if I’m still here, there’s nothing left to do but write.
What about? I haven’t the faintest. It remains to be seen whether any of this will be fit for human consumption. All I have to work on is this nagging sense that this is what I’m supposed to be doing, and that the details will have to work themselves out.
Welcome. If you’re here for the ride, I’m happy to have you. I promise to write as frankly as I know how. If, when all’s said and done, it doesn’t make a wit of sense, then I owe you and will be happy to pay up next time we belly up to the pub.