I always think of you when I write. I imagine you in a comfortable, quiet position and the two of us in intimate conversation. I think a lot about what I have to tell you before I give it to you; I worry a lot about being precise and true. Yet I change every day, learning as I go, and if I kept working at the perfect precision I may never offer you anything. Here, now, writing in a blog, I feel a shift in my approach to the writing. I want to tell you all the stories you want to hear and I can bear to tell, but not here. This feels more like writing on a sheet, hanging it outside the window, rather than safe on soft pages between a front and back cover. You might be reading me on your lap, though, or on a tablet or phone in your hand, yet, somehow, still, my voice feels more exposed like this than in a covered book. Like my guts open for anyone to look at with a click or swipe. Nonetheless, I will find ways to tell you more and to get my stories on pages between covers where you can find them. I write first for me, it bubbles up, and then I sift through it to share what shines with you. I do my best to take the least of your time to give you the most. I thank you for making my writing complete.