I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of writing, of being able to call myself a writer. “Yes, I’m a writer.  I write ________.” Almost as far back as I can remember I’ve from time to time pretended to be a writer.

Once, when I was probably 6 or 7, I had a styrofoam hat that was made to look like something an old vaudeville dancer might wear. I made a little card that said “PRESS” and stuck it in the red, white, and blue paper brim of the hat. I fancied myself a reporter. I even carried a little notepad around for a while, waiting for a big story to break within the walls of my house.

At about the same time, my mom and I periodically ventured to the public library in the nearest decent-sized town, about 30 miles from our house. We would have driven into town for some reason or another (kind of reminds me of the Waltons making the big trip to Charlottesville or Richmond). I began checking out biographies of famous Americans – George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Edison to name a few. The library boasted a whole series of these, written just for kids my age.

At some point I decided to write a biography of Lincoln myself. I believe I got one paragraph down on paper and decided that was enough. After all, his biography had been done to death, hadn’t it?

My autobiography didn’t turn out any better; as I was only seven, I didn’t have a lot to say.

Being a fan of the Charlie Brown comic strips and cartoons, I naturally loved Snoopy. Something inside clicked when he would sit down at his typewriter and begin typing those famous words: “It was a dark and stormy night.” Wow! It would be neat to write like that, I thought.  Is that something I could do?

I tried my hand at writing my own version of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. No, I hadn’t read the book – I just had heard the title somewhere. My opening went something like this:  “There once were two cities. One was 10 miles from the other, and the other was 15 miles from the other.” I think that’s as far as I got.

Fast forward ten or 12 years and I’m sitting at the edge of my parents’ carport on a bright July afternoon between my sophomore and junior years of college. The sun was high overhead and beaming its loveliness directly down onto my head and back. There’s something about being in the sun that just makes you feel wonderful. As I was contemplating this fact I thought, I love it in the hot, bright sun. You know, that’s what I’m going to name my first book – I Love it in the Hot Bright Sun.

At this particular time I don’t believe I’d been entertaining any real aspirations of becoming a writer. In fact, I was still undeclared as far as a major, waffling between wanting to become a city planner and working for the CIA (the CIA thing having been inspired from the the movie “Die Hard”, even though I don’t think the CIA was even in the movie).

For years I’ve held onto this idea of writing, although the thought was often shoved way down into the farthest recesses of my brain. Could I really do it? Do I have anything worthwhile to say to the world?

I’ve always dreamed of allowing other people to read what I’ve written. But at the same time the thought of others having access to what’s inside my head terrifies me.

I’ve kept journals and written little pieces of fiction and nonfiction since I was in the 8th grade, but these have always been for myself only. Until recently, the only real thought I’d had in the back of my mind about opening these up to the public was that maybe, just maybe, some of this material might be read after I’m long gone.

But lately I’ve felt God leading me to open my thoughts up for others to read. Consequently, I created this blog.

Much of what you’ll read here is of a spiritual nature, including my day-to-day spiritual struggles and my thoughts on God, our wonderful creator and father. You’ll also find my observations on things around me, including various cultural aspects and simply the minutia of everyday life. There is also a smattering of fiction, hopefully with more to come in the future.

Please enjoy. I welcome any comments, whether positive or negative.

Clay