Finding the words to start over. Again.

My story isn’t about a woman who lost her job in a year when a pandemic ravaged the world and stole hundreds of thousands of lives. My situation isn’t unique compared to the millions of Americans who also found themselves out of work and struggling to keep the bills paid and food on the table. My friends and family members are all OK. My son is happy and healthy and has a roof over his head. I’m one of the lucky few who will leave 2020 behind mostly unscathed, and the guilt I feel about that could fill volumes.

I‘m not here to complain about my circumstances or claim to have some deeper understanding of the toll this year has taken on so many of us, regardless of our personal and professional circumstances.

I’m here because after a lifetime of writing and editing (and a solid decade of getting paid to do it), I feel I’ve lost the ability to sit down and put words together in a way that makes sense to me or anyone else. I’m here because I’ve started writing this at least 100 times since March and never got past the first paragraph because I couldn’t stand to look at my own mediocrity. But mostly I’m here because my friend Jason Kirk published something today that gave me courage for the first time in a long time. And I just think when you read something that lights a fire in you, you owe it to the writer to let it burn long enough to see where it…