I’m writing a book. Have I told you that I’m writing a book? Have I told you that I’m a writer? Probably not, I’ve just embraced myself for what I am. I am a creator, I always have been. God made a creator when he made me. I want to create truth and beauty and power and love. It was never my fate to resign to the confines of a creation free existence. I tried. I thought that when I inadvertently but appropriately closed the curtain on my acting career in favor of integrity the days of my great creation were over. I ended them. Never again would I allow the passion of creation to break my heart. Never again would I allow the rawness of exposing my art to hurt me. But the passion stayed, tucked away until I healed enough to create again. I tried to make myself into something else. To stifle the voices. No one else stifled this in me, it was me alone. In the past few months I’ve opened the door a small crack to people I love expecting resistance and what I’ve found instead is euphoria. In my family, in friends, in strangers and to the utter delight of my heart I’ve found the greatest encouragement and acceptance in my husband. My darling husband who believes in me to an extent I have never seen him believe in me before. I feel like an addict who has stopped fighting and given in to their addictions. Hungry, Raw and Alive. I haven’t felt this free, this capable and this much like me in years. I’m embracing the voices, the neurosis, and the stories I’ve longed to tell. My voice is alive. Nothing can kill a creator, no not even life itself.