There are few things in life that mean more than self-expression -whether through the beauty of music, the lens of a camera, the paint on a canvas, the stitch on fine silk, the twisting of sterling silver wire on a glass pendant or the swirl of dark chocolate ganache on a fresh cake. Though all of these creative forms come in and out of my life on a regular basis, writing is a passion that I have largely kept to myself. True, I write an occasional article for the women's newsletter at church, an annual Christmas letter which is often "over the top" and sometimes slightly irreverant, and a not so daily journal to God.
My piano teacher once told me that we play a musical instrument to be heard...when we have music in our hearts we HAVE TO SHARE IT. Thus, writers write to be read. Why I think that anyone will read my musings is noteworthy..it says something of my level of self-doubt and fear. In fact, I don't consider myself an avid reader - I get bored with certain writing styles and will drop a book on the floor if it doesn't hold my interest in the first five pages. And I rarely read blogs as most are very self-involved and trite. But if I'm going to criticize, then I should only be allowed to do so if I myself become the dreaded blogger.
So....on this second day of January, 2010, I begin to write. I write because I have to, whether anyone trips over my blog or not. Just do it, Laurel...just do it.