our finding kind of hope

All things change—move nearer, further from. I am 26. It is time to stop hiding from what I want. I want to be a writer. I want to write. I have always wanted to write. I see words. I feel words. I throw those words. They are ugly and jarring. They're in whimsy and kind. They are slow, and they are guilty, and they won't ever not fall.

And what I want to write is a blog, a book, a flock, a vignette. The story between Chelsea and I. The story between me, and you, and spinning. All things fleeting and made of gods.

And the death of a typewriter was only always going to be a chapter, somewhere halfway between the hiding and the hurting—the hope in both of those moments. But it is not the story.

My name is Ian William L., and this is Our Finding Kind Of Hope. New bravery. New strangeness. New too much. New pictures. New music. New words. New hope. New love. New place. New now.

Stay tuned.

(Still ironing out some name change issues.)