Hello friends, and happy February. I did the thing we all do at the beginning of a new year, and I wrote down resolutions. I wadded them up, put them in my mouth, and spit them against the wall. Just one of them stuck. It wasn't my resolution to do yoga at least three times a week. Or my goal of reading three new books a month. It wasn't attending Bible study on Wednesdays. Sophie's ongoing battle with the winter boogerman (you know, our old pal, Influenza A)  put a stop to that one.But, I'm writing every day.The writing stuck.So far, I've written one blog post, eight new poems, one outline for a short story, and 16,000 words of a young adult novel I already hate (I'm throwing it out. I'm pretty sure I'm throwing it out).Even if I toss the novel I started, I learned something valuable in the first six weeks of 2019. I love writing. After an eight year break from this hobby of mine, I found my way back.As a kid, I journaled and wrote poems, and I continued to do so throughout high school. I remember convincing my AP German teacher to let me write a play instead of a research paper for my capstone project. But when I found myself trying to pick a major at CU, I decided against the one which excited me and intidimated me the most -- creative writing. Instead, I opted for a double degree in English literature and journalism. Serious writing. Career writing.  I picked the news-editorial path, and I interned at a magazine in Boulder. It was a great experience. But, I wanted to write fiction.In college I never took a fiction workshop, I never wrote short stories -- or even creative nonfiction -- but when I graduated, I decided to patch together applications for MFA fiction programs around the country. I asked for letters of recommendations from professors who had only read my academic writing or my editorial pieces, and I refused to let anyone help me with the stories I wanted to submit. Some of the schools I chose only accepted three or four writers every year. And, to my sad surprise -- probably not to yours -- every school rejected me. I stopped writing. All writing. Because I believed I wasn't a great writer.I wasn't wrong.I'm still not a great writer. But, a few months ago I read Stephen King's memoir, On Writing, and it offered me a fresh perspective:"While it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and while is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one."Now, I disagree with Mr. King's first point. I do -- I must -- believe bad writers can become competent writers. I would not have devoted four years of my life to teaching language arts to middle schoolers if I believed they lacked the potential to develop basic writing skills. However, his last point gives me hope.I will never be a great writer. It's impossible to be great unless you're born with the mind of David Foster Wallace or James Joyce or Toni Morrison. I wasn't.How freeing.I will never be great at writing. But, somehow, knowing that truth frees me to free to enjoy it. To play with creativity and language and imagery. To try out different genres. To write for the fun of it. Maybe some day, I'll become a good writer rather than just a competent one. Maybe not. Either way, I'm going to keep writing every day because it was the only resolution that stuck and because I can feel it cracking the dried-up layer of mud I patty-caked around my soul eight years ago. Writing is not my job. Getting published is not my lifelong ambition. (Actually, I happen to like my day job of taking care of a 1-year-old full time and running a photography business part-time.) But reconnecting with writing is waking me up and turning me into someone who listens more carefully to the sounds and the words and the shifts of the world around me. Writing is gently reaching out, cupping my shoulder, and squeezing it, like a proud older brother would. Writing is filling me, cell by cell, so I can -- hopefully, someday -- spill myself out to others.Thanks for circling around the cul-de-sac, my old friend.P.S. I used the above photo from a little over a year ago (when I still had hair) because I have been missing my tiny newborn Sophie something fierce today. She woke up from her nap early, and I let her fall back asleep in my arms. As she slept in the crook of my elbow, I read my book, and I watched her breath -- just like I used to when she was two weeks old. But today, my baby turned 14 months, and she can say 20 words, pour me imaginary tea, show me her bellybutton, tell me a sheep says "ba ba," and floss her toes with naan when we eat at our favorite Indian restaurant. So, basically, she's grown.