The hard thing about writing is that once you begin to do it, you limit yourself. Before you begin, there are one thousand different paths your imagining could take. But once you try to contain that beginning, that seed, that idea to a paper, you limit yourself. You limit yourself to at least some sort of realism and logic, even if you are writing something fantastical.  Moving something from your mind to paper confines it. This big, lolling, stretching, writhing, spilling mass  becomes characters on a page, stuck in one course. One path. All of a sudden, all of the things that could have been are no more, and all that is left is what is. And you need to figure out how to write what is truthfully and accurately and sensibly. I am afraid that I am too grown up to write beautifully and yet not grown up enough to live properly.

And I want to live properly and sensibly and bravely and beautifully and simply.


(But like…

What if you just won’t simplify?)


Sometimes I feel like living is like writing.

When it’s in my head, it could go a thousand different ways. There are so many things swirling in there. It can be overwhelming.

Thank goodness that we have to choose.

That we decide which path is ours and we take it and it eliminates some of the possibilities. This might seem limiting. But it’s starting to feel like a relief. To choose my good with the help of God and others and then that’s my path, my direction, my goal…

(Don’t you worry… there will still be complications and deviations and surprises along the way to keep things exciting.)

This feels satisfying to me.

Much like writing does.

Sometimes, emptying myself out is the best way to feel full again.

Sometimes, making a choice-dedicating myself to one thing- is the only way to feel free again.