Today my words are of little consequence. I’m taking an online course: “How Writers Write Fiction.” It’s offered by Iowa and I’m really excited for it to start. This week is welcome week and already I’m affected. I’m learning, or rather relearning, going back to my roots. I almost lost my passion for writing, my reason for writing… Not to be read, or to be noticed, or to fill a role, or a hole in my life. I write selfishly and wholeheartedly. Turning over every stone in my path, looking for treasure, for meaning, for beauty, in everything, in something. It’s nice to be reminded. It’s nice to be given permission, which is what this course is enforcing. Sometimes you forget, sometimes you become shy and doubtful, and you need proof that all of this, this feeling and need and urge to look at the world and record every moment and create meaning and beauty and community out of little shapes on a page, is normal, and is confirmation itself. And like I lose my keys and stumble upon them in a happy “Ah ha!” moment, here I am. Ah ha!