Blog
When I was younger, just out of college, I loved the adventure of moving. I can still remember driving to my first apartment after I graduated. The skyscrapers in downtown Minneapolis rose out of the morning mist as we crested a hill south of the city. I was in the car with my mom; my suitcase, bedding, and a box fan were in the back of the pickup truck.
Things seemed fresh with possibility, dewy with newness.
I've found many reasons to write in my life. I've written while traveling alone, staying at hostels across Italy and marveling at the vibrant kindness of strangers. I've lived in Morocco and Argentina, and I've written through culture shock and through not speaking the language, desperate I'd never understand.
Our culture dictates that good people are productive, and in the Midwest, hardworking people create things that have purpose. Even though I was writing every day, my non-writing time was becoming a contest, between my inner self that delighted in writing for no purpose other than joy, and my social self that was flailing about, looking for an assignment to complete, for something to create.
