really, I am . . . I am constantly blogging inside my head . . . in traffic, in the shower, as I go about my day, while I’m watching Little House on the Prairie (not kidding about that last one!) . . .

but somehow, these entries don’t make it to the screen, or they are doomed to live out their days as a draft, waiting to be perfected before I hit “publish”.

Blogging was supposed to help me with my chronic lack of discipline when it comes to writing, and it worked for a while, but then . . . I don’t know. Life happened. I’ve been wrestling with sickness both in my body and my soul. The words are there, but they refuse to break forth . . .

but I need to do something about this. because can I really call myself a writer if I never write?