In 2020, writing was therapy. I developed an addiction to the release I experienced after writing. In 2021, it was as if my doctor had lost my old prescription. I could not experience the same release. My wand had lost its magic. My prayers fell on an indifferent higher power.

Writing is not therapy. Good writing certainly isn't. In good writing, the puppeteer disappears behind the stage. In bad writing, the reader follows the puppeteer like a distressed parent. Vomiting our emotions is easy. Recreating an experience is hard.

I'm glad that this website is more than a collection of stories, but also a document of my evolution as a writer. I feel more in control of the form than ever, yet I still struggle against my own incompetence. There are essays on this website that I disagree with, wish I'd never written, and am amazed I published. However, this website grows as I grow. I cannot erase my work from two years ago any more than I can erase my experiences from two years ago.

Now that my writing is no longer therapy, I believe it can something more. It can be one of the pillars to for man to prevail. It can be a gift for the dying man. It can be a tool for others to fly. Now that my writing is no longer therapy, perhaps it can be something worth writing about.