I used to be a writer. I haven’t felt much like a writer the last several years even though I have written a few things. I heard a podcast by Elizabeth Gilbert this week saying that she called herself a writer long before anyone else ever did. I can relate to that in a way but it’s weird to think of myself as a writer now. I feel like over the last several years I’ve been stuck in the mud as far as writing goes. In my last blog post, I talked about being a fish out of water, and I think that I was. As I floundered on the shore, I got stuck in the mud there for a long time and even though I was evolving, I didn’t know what to do with those legs and lungs. Lately, I have felt the purpose. Candy Jansen has always wanted me to be a writer. She fell in love with the part of me that was a writer wayback when. She encouraged me to take time and write, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know what to say anymore. Now I feel like there’s 1 million things in my head, and I don’t know how to say them all or in what order I should say them. Maybe I’ve already said them and what I say now might end up being an echo of what I said back in those writing days. But I guess that’s OK. Looking back at my midlife discovery while I’m curious about who I’ll become is surely not a bad thing.