I composed this two days ago, scribbling it hurriedly and surreptitiously into my notebook while glancing up at intervals to ensure no co-worker was on the brink of emerging in my office doorway.  It came to me suddenly, as most things do, and as it materialized in my mind it was accompanied by that familiar panicky feeling that if I did not pen it immediately I would lose it forever.  Too much has been lost in such a way.

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I think in order to be a writer - a good writer, a relatable writer, a writer of accurate or believable things - one must be courageous enough to admit the truth of truth.  The realness of undeniability.  That is, some things just are, and pleasant or not, they shape our convictions, mold our beliefs, and determine our destinies.  We can alter our attitudes, yes, that can be a brave act and a thorny task.  But we cannot deny what is.  We must not run from truth.  We need not cheerily embrace it, but what it is our lot to do, as intelligent self-preserving beings, is to sit down with it, across an intimate space, and look it in the eye.  We must say to it, "You are here, and I am here, and this journey belongs to both of us now."  And then we must take a deep breath.  And then, a step forward.  The first of many along a path we never thought we'd travel, but would now be dishonest to call anything but our own.

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