It’s almost Thanksgiving, and I’m being literal about it this year. I now hereby officially give thanks to you, whoever you are, for reading my words.  All the sappy love song lyrics apply. It means everything to me. It completes the work that writing begins. It’s the wind beneath…well, no. Not that. I have to draw a line somewhere.

My first blog was called Shouting into the Void, because that describes how writing without an audience feels to me. The second was titled, “Dabbling My Toes In The Surf” because it was an experiment. Then I began sculpting stories in earnest, and that effort needed its own name.  And here we are.

Thanks for hanging around the studio, offering helpful suggestions and offering inspiring applause now and then. It brings the place to life. Without readers I would scream myself hoarse in the silence.

Here’s a bonus confession. (Yeah, the tea’s done, but I’m not.) I’m not good at gratitude. I feel it, yes. Often and deeply. Expressing it is another story. Demonstrating it without accidental condescension or inadvertent offense takes more delicate social skills than I possess. I’m awkward at it, and inconsistent. It never feels natural. Erring on the side of silence is a defense reinforced by every wrong guess. I guess wrong a LOT.

Please keep that in mind when I fail of common courtesy on some occasion or another (possibly all of them.) As much as I fail, I am trying, in my own forgetful, awkward, human way, to master the skill.

That’s why I’m taking advantage of this holiday to make sure I get the truth out there. I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you.

Aggh, posted this without my tea notes for posterity.
Time: 10:35 AM
Tea: Irish Breakfast in a bag. Again. I’m at work.
Steep: Yes.