I wrote a few weeks ago about this great purple pen I’d found to write in my writer’s notebook at school and how it disappeared from my desk one day. One of my readers took pity on me and sent me a package of these pens in so many colors! Who would have thunk that there could be so many colors?

Pens hold so much possibility. I can write hopes and dreams, sadness and loss. I can lift up or bring down. I can ride my horse anywhere my imagination want to go. I can create my perfect writing studio or little log cabin in a meadow or on a mountainside or in the midst of a snowstorm.

I can meet friends here and relax with a cup of coffee and some lemon meringue pie. We can talk for hours about horses or tractors, or watch a movie with some popcorn and RC Cola. I can go places I’ve never been and meet people who’ll be good friends or some I want to avoid like the plague.

I can linger here in small secret spaces. I can be anyone I want to be. I can create myself as many times as I want. I can be with those I love. There is no one to judge here in these pages. And it all starts with a pen.