Join me as I sit in a coffee house on a Thursday afternoon staring at a computer screen while I beg words to flow like they used to. Writing used to be therapeutic for many seasons of my life. I could nearly literally feel words and thoughts clamoring to get out as if they were spectators in an arena on fire. Any exit, every exit bulging with the contents of my heart finding a way to get escape. That's how it used to be. And then writing became a drudge, a responsibility, another thing pulling for my time and quite frankly another huge expectation placed on me that I was fearful of. So I didn't write. I wrote down ideas and thoughts and talked a lot about writing. I reveled in a weekend with a piddle-y word count as if I'd just penned the modern equivalent of War and Peace. I have felt like a fraud for having made major life changes to write this epic book (that was still in my head nearly 4 years later), and in all honesty, I am a fraud more often than I care to