There have been ideas forming for months. Two voices. Three. More distinct than my own. They rummage through my mind on holiday, sending postcards with postscripts and pocket-sized souvenirs. A fourth voice sends love letters crisscrossed with a distance so large that the letters will never arrive.
I have never claimed to know my way through fiction.
But memoir has become as clogged as poetry and as unsure as leaving an entry here.
I am stunted by those who expect their presence to be written into mine. And afraid that those who find themselves in the lines (and between) will want more, or less, than I could ever write.
I cannot be overtaken as I once was. My voice has grown hoarse, more round, intact. On one side, I am writing two voices, three, a fourth. On another, my day gathers under me and propels me a day further into life. But on all sides, I am writing again, at last.