If I can write this...

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow. The pies are accumulating, with fresh baked rolls soon to follow, thanks to Dr. Wife's mad breadz skillz. I have fled our apartment for the closest Biggby Coffee shop. Not the best in town, but the closest that isn't Starbucks.

It's too easy to put myself in time-out at home. Leave the lights off, the music off, wrapped in my robe, getting more and more overwhelmed by the jobless funk. It's good to be out and see the sun. And good to write.

I alternate between blog posts (most of which will never see the light of day) and song lyrics (none of which will see the light of day). I'm not sure how I landed on writing as a hobby, as I'm neither talented nor trained. Partly, I have been inspired by good storytellers to tell good stories. I suppose my love of tiny, empty notebooks probably helps.

It also seems to help with introspection. Like a lot of you, I fight very hard against depression. It is easy to let cyclic thoughts spiral me downward, back to cold corners, where I sit and stew. In writing, the stupidity and disconnect from reality becomes glaringly evident. I have to lift my head and look around with less jaded and surrendering eyes. The paragraph ends and I get to indent and begin again.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful to English teachers; those who taught me and those who continue to encourage my writing. I'm thankful for librarians, stocking the shelves and steering me. I'm thankful to my mom who read me a million books, and to my dad who taught me to twist the stories. I'm thankful for Bob Dylan and Brett Dennen, who give my feelings words and rhythm. I'm thankful for Dr. Wife reading bedtime stories loudly enough that I can listen. And I'm thankful for miss Neverpoop's first written story: "Matt sat on a cat."