Living with ghosts is the natural state of writers. They haunt, cajole, amuse, charm, threaten, and attempt to seduce. Often, they simply pace silently waiting for their turn on the wheel.

My first poem at the age of eight was called Ghosts. I recall only four lines of it and they may be all I wrote:

Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts,

Flying through the air,

Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts,

Everywhere.

Perhaps, I was wise beyond my years. But it was many more years before I came to understand those lines. Now, I embrace the ghosts who have taken up permanent residence inside me. I recognize my function as the guardian and custodian of their memory. I also know they are shadows of their former selves and my memory of them is flawed. My imperfect expression represents a pale reflection of who they once were. Still, it is what I have to work with.

In the past, I often claimed that creating a work of art is an act of courage. I would go further now and say it is also a sacred trust that must be exercised with humility and a recognition of the effort's poverty. Coupled with imagination, these ghosts may well speak volumes, hopefully touching a chord in others, offering them a truth which resonates. It is all we can hope for in this endeavor.

And so,I begin. Here, I will record my thoughts regarding writing, life, the universe, and everything. Whether anyone ever comes to read my words is secondary to the act of recording them at this stage. I feel the need. It is enough for now.