I've gotten out of the habit of writing. I do dabble, a little in the notebook, and the occasional post on FB, but the daily ritual is gone. I have been feeling the absence of it, without knowing the cause for the feeling. Reading a few pages from the old blog Paperback Writer reminded what it was like to write every day. So, I'm back.
   There is the old question, who is it that I'm writing to? There is a trick to that, and a danger. I remember why I stopped trying to write in my twenties. Every thing I put down was crap. It had been pasteurized by a personal censor, sanitized for a reader who was a judge. My early journaling an apologetic, the worse sort of writing, free of honest feeling.
   Today I am writing to a stranger, to you. I am going to spill it all out here, what I actually think, and feel. I encourage you to judge me any way you like.