So, here’s the deal.

I want to be a writer.  I mean, I really want to be a writer.  But just as I have felt about any one of my other life goals, my dream of a writing career is accompanied by fear:  fear of failure, of vulnerability… perhaps even of success, with each fear equally paralyzing.

So, I have decided to take action.  I am resolved to return to a former love – something that I know sets good writers apart:  reading.  Not to say that I don’t read.  I do, just not as much as I used to and definitely not as purposefully as I should.

Now, lest I get carried away here in my self-deprecation, let me take a second to point out that I have, at certain times in my life, been a very avid reader.   I was the ten-year-old who would read novels on Saturday mornings instead of watching cartoons.  Take that ten-year-old, throw on another decade or so, a four-year’s degree worth of studying, a full-time job, a fear that I’ll never be as smart as others who are doing the same thing I am, and an impressive repertoire of excuses, and what do you get?  A once-passionate, now not-so-much, reader.

So, I am going to start again.  I am rediscovering my love for reading the written word.  I am going to slowly chip away at my attitude of self-preservation and work proactively toward my dream.

And since I no longer have exams or professors to ensure my faithfulness in this venture, I am going to make this blog my accountability partner.  I’m not making any promises of grandeur, but you can be looking for a new addition that may or may not include amateur reviews of the works that I read.

First on the list?  Donald Miller’s latest, “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.”  I can’t believe I haven’t read it yet.  (Insert witty comment about proving my own point, here.)

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