Here we go again!

I’m overflowing with stories, but I can’t help thinking that they’re not mine to tell.

I’ve always loved those parts in books when the writer stops what he or she is writing about and tells a story about a human. In all the really good ones, the name is changed in order to preserve the privacy of that person, or some such nonsense. Let’s get real. The person is probably named Karen or something, and there are thousands of Karens in this country, so I doubt that calling her Karen would really jeopardize her safety, but I digress. I love those stories because they are human and painful and raw and interesting. I usually see pieces of myself in them, or of someone that I know. They’re the stuff that good non-fiction books are made of.

Yet, I never thought about how hard it must have been to write the stories until I started to write some. I have lots in my journal… but those are so that I can remember funny details years from now. No one else will read them.

I hear lots of stories. Many of them heartbreaking, some of them truly redeeming (though I think that for redemption to be true, it must come in the wake of heartbreak). I suppose I’ll probably tell some here (and in spite of my general desire to be a non-conformist whenever possible, I will probably change their names, for privacy). But mostly I think I’ll just ramble on about what it’s like to be a twenty something living in a city, working with homeless women, and trying to follow Jesus into the dark crevices of this world. It’s fun, that’s what it is!