• The one-way street I thought I knew now lies before me as winding paths. A thousand different ways to go and not a single sign pointing in the right direction.

    Words are scattered on the ground, the results of ideas I’ve revisited time and time again. With a pen in hand and no place to go, I stand confused. This was easy once. My past is full of neatly formed sentences and paragraphs. Ideas flowing to pages effortlessly with every emotion in my body. Careful thoughts with a steady hand. My past is full of confidence.

    The only sign I read is one in front of me. A giant, white question mark meaning much more than punctuation. It means a destination I cannot see; an idea I haven’t thought of. It means a place I’ve never visited; an inspiration I have never felt. Inked pages I cannot read and words I haven’t heard of. It represents my hand, idle beside my notebook as I tap my pen. It represents my eyes blankly staring down at my empty pages. It represents my direction and how lost and desperately needing to be found it is. It represents everything I don’t know I will accomplish.

    The unknown mind of a writer is no dangerous place or safe haven. It is nothing more than winding roads of uncharted words and deserted and undiscovered ideas.

    The journey of a writer is never done with an idle hand. It is done without hesitation and without fear of failure. It is done in permanent ink, unashamed of mistakes. The journey of a writer is no walk in the park, but a roller coaster of clear skies and thunderstorms. The journey of a writer defines a never-ending growth.

    My journey defines who I was, who I am, and everything I have yet to become.