Writers write.

It is that simple.

I am a writer. Therefore, I have to uncrowd my brain of all the ideas and all the people who live in there by writing.

The purpose of Lent is not to set insane daily blogging challenges along with doing yoga + meditation every day, and journaling. Nope, Jesus was not saying anything about productivity targets.

Lent is, however, a time of mindfulness. Of reflection. Of recommitment to goals and ideals. A time to draw closer.

To what? You decide.

But here I am, writing again. I’m sorely out of practice of writing longer form content. I tweet happily. I maybe have a book or two in tweets right now. But for me and my house, I like longer form content.

There is something satisfying about reading the ideas of a mind in all their glory spilled across a page (or screen). A mind that has laboured over the right words, the right sentences, and the right way to convey an idea.

I feel there is often a fast food nature to shorter form content like a tweet. A buzz, a burst, then it’s gone.

I hope to get to the stage, once again, where I can set a table laden with home cooked meals of my writings and invite you to feast.

I missed you. And I missed the me that exists when I write. The absolute act of self care it is to take the time to do this this. To write.

Because I am a writer. And I write.

And for the next waves hand in circles in the air however long, I’m gonna honour that and myself.

Writers write.

And I am one.