That's not actually supposed to indicate any deep revelation. Simply fact. I'm 39. I am 39 years old. I rather like being 39. I deeply enjoy getting older. It provides so much comfort for me. I feel just a teeny bit better about myself and my place in this world.
It was just four months ago that I finished my MBA program with Willamette University. It was an incredibly tough two years and I needed to put many things in life on hold while I pursued that goal. Coming out of that environment has been a very interesting process on an emotional level.
In the last few weeks I have experienced what I can only characterize as a powerful motivation to write. I find myself filled with the common anxieties of writing. Do I have anything worth reading to say? What is the purpose of my writing? If I put my thoughts out on paper and then actually let people read them, will their opinion of me diminish? Does this mean that I care far too much about how other people regard me as an individual? Is this a Jerry Maguire moment in which I reveal all of my thoughts only to experience incredible failure and rejection?
I believe I may have experienced some sort of internal tipping point. I have some things on my mind and I would really like to write about them. Perhaps, if nothing else, to use them as conversation starters with my kids and say, did you know your dad feels this way about this subject?
I have read that Truman Capote began writing at the age of 11 and that he would come home and write for 2-3 hours every day. He compared it to other kids playing baseball or basketball. Writing was a game to him. A way to release what was inside. While I cannot relate to that depth of inner compulsion or that sense of focus, I can relate to the need to release what I am thinking on paper. And, so I begin.
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