What Writing Brings to the Table (With a Side of Hope)

Last night, I stared at the screen for six hundred years before I finally felt like I sorta-kinda managed to type anything resembling what's in my head.  Today, during a hundred conversations, I found myself quietly avoiding any topic I would attack with reckless abandon here.

What is it about writing?

There's this *ooh, shiny* allure to the perfect analogy or the perfect turn of phrase to capture the inconceivable.  But I think the best thing about writing is the lack of expectation.

My entries aren't graded.  They may be judged, but the population who judges keeps those thoughts silent (or confined to their cliques).  The best part of no expectations is the fact that I'm free to explore the things in my head without the committment face to face conversation requires.

In face to face conversation, I will avoid serious topics--especially if they center around my personal problems.  I don't like the awkward feeling of navigating a room of eyes.  Generally, if things get too serious or a little personal, I deflect with a joke.  It's the easiest way to change the topic without uncomfortable aftershocks that ultimately affect relationships (often detrimentally).

But writing, while it may draw eyes, doesn't require me to stand, figuratively naked, in front of a group of strangers while I navigate the biggest pothole in the road.  In fact, it has been a sweet blessing in my life--I have the opportunity to stand behind a curtain and do something something I love without the awkward stares or unintentional rejection that often comes when someone doesn't quite follow my line of thought.

In my small group tonight, we discussed destiny.  One question was something like "Have you ever felt like a door was closed on a particular destiny in your life?"  I looked at the carpet and shuffled thoughts in my head like a deck of cards.  Everyone of those cards was the ace of absolutely. 

I didn't show my hand.  I probably won't in the near future.  Past precedent has taught me to pay attention to what is on the table before I raise the ante.  But on my drive home, I couldn't help but think that even when a door was slammed in my face, hope made an unexpected visit.

That whole experience really makes me wonder about the nature of hope.  Like several other things in my life, I've never been able to cast it aside, because it seems to snap back into place.  And not because I'm a particularly idealistic person, either.  But there it is.

Hope springs eternal.

And here?  I feel perfectly safe to acknowledge that fact.