I once read somewhere (apologies to all my former literature teachers who would chastise me here for lack of parenthetical references) that “Solitude is a chosen separation for refining your soul. Isolation is what you crave when you neglect the first.”
I can’t say the above quote completely explains or excuses my column-writing hiatus for the past couple of months, but there is something to the notion of keeping personal refinement of one’s soul as a private and personal process that is difficult to expose to the masses (in this case, you, the readers).
The truth is, I am a brutally honest writer. That’s just my style. As Ernest Hemingway once asserted? Admitted? Lamented?: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is just sit down at a typewriter and bleed…”
Well, I do most of my writing from a half-broken laptop rather than a typewriter, but I’m usually right there with Hemingway — bleeding for what I believe needs to be said. It’s just not always that simple when the truth is difficult to expose, I guess.
With that being acknowledged, let’s get (re)started.