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Our stories remain. Which means people live on. But in the chaos of everyday moments, it can feel like our lives are moving at the speed of a time-lapse video. 

There stirs within me an unquenchable need to tell our stories, document lives that were lived, are still being lived, and the moments that shaped those stories from their very first chapters.

There are stories to be told of those who are physically no longer with us. A preservation of their impact on the world, a glimpse of how their stories are continuing in the lives of those they touched.

There are endless opportunities to document our humanity. And it is in those opportunities that I believe I have found my writer’s purpose. 

What good is art, except to share it with a world that needs, daily, to be reminded of that humanity? To be touched by the realization of our commonalities? To help others know, not just be aware, that we all bleed red. We all feel pain and joy. That our stories are connected and intertwined by the threads of love, hope, pain, despair, loss, determination, frustration, fear, and the simple hope that our stories, our lives, will, do, matter. 

Over the next few months, I will be working on a project that has been metamorphasizing in my mind for some time. Blue Inkwell, my baby company, has become less about writing work, and more about the art that I believe I was meant to create. 

Reaching that conclusion has taken almost a year. Involved much introspection and experimentation. Required the relinqueshment of control of what I thought my writing *should* be into what it must become.

In the year that I have written for a paycheck, nothing has satisfied me like I hoped it would. And art, rightly so, isn’t about a tangible reward. It’s about the gift. It’s about the giving and the sharing and the releasing of something beautiful into the world with the understanding that I may never know, at least in my lifetime, what impact that art will have. And it’s about being okay with that. 

There is a peace that comes with recognizing and becoming settled, at last, with the purpose and direction which I want my writing to take. 

It’s like finally seeing a glimpse of a bigger picture that was more colorful and inclusive and full of opportunity than I ever imagined. It’s knowing, at last, my “why”. And my why is using this gift for writing to tell stories.

We ask for them when we’re little.

We want to tell them when we are old.

We live them every day in between. 

Our stories remain.

There is much to do. But first, I write.