I have carried it with me each day, that sense of shame about the fact that I write, that it wasn’t really what my family expected or wanted me to do

that sense of of guilt of transgression of saying things in it – the finding of what and how to say these things – that I did not know before I began

that which always scares me because what I do think I have is a pretty good idea – a clear idea – of what needs saying once I have started to say it

and that scares me a little – each time it scares me – even though I have done it a thousand times before

because I know ultimately what I am doing is saying no to the silence that would otherwise engulf me or persuade me to never speak again