In Grad school – or was it college? — has enough time passed that I am now CONFUSING GRAD SCHOOL AND COLLEGE? – but I think it was grad school — we would bring it personal pages. They were just pages of ahhhh, you know. Personal things. Scenes that directed related to things that were currently worrying, plaguing, intriguing us. I miss this. Making a living as a writer is a blessing and a curse. While I am the MOST FORTUNATE,  a writer’s  relationship to their writing — where they pull from — changes  as people start throwing dollars and ideas at them. Writing used to be truly how I worked things out. How I told boys I loved them, how I told my friends I was angry with them, how I told God I thought about Him. (Note: rarely did the writing ever make it to hands of the person I was actually attempting to communicate with — so yes. It was a good, let’s say, 25 years, before I actually started to vocalize how I really felt.) But it’s changed.  Lately, it feels like my inner thoughts  are a book I don’t have time to read. I’m weeks ahead of or behind myself, never fully where I am. Well, I say to this, NO BUENO. I must find the time to work on things that are just mine, not because these things will change lives or buy houses, but because they are personal, they help me think through my thoughts, and what’s even more, actually learn to EXPRESS THEM.