I just erased a year’s worth of posts that formerly occupied this space and I find the new blankness intimidating. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my writing. But there is a voice in myself and when I stop writing, it stops speaking. When it stops speaking, I feel like I am half-asleep in a strange place.

I work a lot as a writer and editor and so I already spend my days staring at a computer screen in consternation, pushing words around pages, considering sentences and paragraphs and parsing quotes. I have long commutes and I travel often for my job. I drink lots of coffee and sleep far less than I should. All that makes me hesitant to start writing in this space again, but I’m going to do my best and see where it leads.

I am 27. I live in an old apartment on a busy street in a crowded Chicago neighborhood with two roommates. I read whenever I don’t have to be doing something else. I take a drawing class at the Art Institute. I run. I have vivid dreams and remember them almost every night, which is a mixed blessing. My favorite color is red… deep red with a sunset hint of rust.

That’s where I’m going to start.