Most days I do not know what to write or what to say. My husband says that I am scared to look in my heart. That it is like peeking under a rock and then running away. I think I agree with him. I am afraid, afraid that if I look, nothing will be there. I have always said there are two kinds of people in the world: those who create art and those who appreciate art. I have always called myself the latter but it is the artist I wish to be. They say in order to create you must first be willing to do so poorly. I feel like I can’t do that. Or won’t. I want to create. I think creating is beautiful. Therefore whatever it is I might create should be perfect. But this is all wrong. I have to learn to wander and linger inside my soul. I have to listen fiercely to the tiniest of whispers inside myself. I need to stop relying on feelings—as in the need to FEEL creative before picking up a pen. I need to immerse myself. I need to try and try and try again. I read this recently: When do you make the time? They say, and it’s impossible not to. Art is oxygen is faith is sanctuary. This is how I want to be with my writing. I want to have a voice. I choose to exercise this voice. I have to because there is no other way.