Playing with blocks

For Christmas, Mallory gave me a whole array of lovelies that perhaps I will tell you about sometime, and one of them was this beautiful mug. I love this mug. I drink out of it whenever possible, and I'm always bummed when it has to take its turn in the dishwasher. (But I'm grateful for dishwashers.)

Here's the thing. I love stories. I love hearing a well-told story almost as much as I love telling a well-told story. There's nothing quite like the feeling of spinning a yarn and weaving it around and through the audience. The craft of telling a story is something I like to think I've come by quite accidentally, but it's a skill I enjoy. No, where I feel I've lacked in the past is actually having a story to tell.

Well, no longer. I choose now to make my writer's blocks my play things. I will build them in to great big towers, and maybe they'll fall. Or maybe they'll rise up into the most epic game of Jenga ever played. But whatever happens, I feel confident in the beginning of my story, and the first few chapters are really the stuff dreams are made of. I don't know how it will end, but I know where I want it to go. And the great thing about being the writer is that I have more of a say in my story's outcome than maybe I give myself credit for.

So here's to the hours and words, the weeks and chapters, and the years and volumes to come.