Somewhere in a Room Covered in Ripped Jeans, Coffee Stains, and Ink-Smeared Paper...

...a story is unfolding.

It’s a romantic picture, isn’t it? A messy kind of beauty that makes writing feel both enchanting and rebellious. When I first became a professional writer, it genuinely felt that way. I was twenty years young writing for local newspapers and national music magazines. Full of spirit, youthful innocence, and passionate convictions, I was convinced there was a soul behind even the blandest of stories and that I could find it.

Fast forward sixteen years. It's not a long time in the eyes of my more seasoned counterparts, but long enough to build a versatile writing career spanning journalism, marketing, fiction, and research. My resume painted quite the picture of success, but there was a catch. The more I grew professionally, the less I wrote for myself.

So, I made a promise to myself this year to return to that gloriously messy place. The one that manifested sixteen-plus years ago inside a closet-sized college dorm as I scribbled introspective musings under the soundtracks of countless albums, cheap candles, and the greasy aroma of dollar-menu Wendy’s.

Hunched like an underfed gremlin in front of a desk smothered in round coffee stains, scribbled notes, and yesterday’s dirty laundry, I felt the pull of an intangible magic. The kind that appears when the heart and the mind come together to spill honest prose onto paper.

That old dorm - and a questionable amount of flannel.

So, I'm expanding this blog to include space for me to recreate that magic; to go back to my little writing bubble that existed before the bylines and the business blegh.

Scrub off the fancy words and this is just a late-thirty-somethings’ online journal. But that defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?

So let’s call this my dirty little writing closet with a wide-open door. I simply ask that if you step across its threshold, you do so with a kind heart.

Thanks for being curious. ❤