In 1997, I began journalling online in an attempt to be more honest with both myself and the world.
In 1998, I faced the death of a number of dreams, falling in love for what I thought might be the last time, and awakening from a long, difficult nightmare.
In 1999, I decided to reclaim what I had written, wrap it up and put it away. Then I decided to start fresh once again. I do that, sometimes.
In 2000, I decided to figure out what I want from my life and my work.
In 2001, I redefined myself—and then stopped defining myself entirely.
In 2002, I explored what it means when I say I am a writer, and planned for my future—and lost a beloved friend.
In 2003, I face the end of a number of cycles and the beginning of many more, and have begin exploring the meaning of power and of remaining true to myself.
Why do I do this? Because it is an open-armed compulsion, because this is my quotidian voice, because it helps keep me sane and because it is an outlet for my writing urges.
I do it because I want to, because some things need to be said to an audience.
Because I am no longer alone.