I am on vacation this week. What am I doing? Getting my kid settled in to school and starting a 6-week course on writing and fear. I am and have been terrified to write what and how I want. Afraid of not being taken seriously as a writer, of not contributing to the world a relevant and powerful and purposeful narrative. Afraid of community and isolation, undernourished by academe, but suckling its teat in penance. Enough. What if all this time I wasn’t a writer at all, but a keeper and giver of story? What if all the things I love are just ways for me to record and share story? What if I write a poem tomorrow and not again for 6 years, but each day there is a beauty and maybe a little joy and a little laugh and a little pray? I want to consider this.