Writing has been a form of therapy for most of my adulthood. For several years, I kept a blog where I shared the trials and triumphs of events in my life. Friends, family, and coworkers tuned in regularly to read what I had to share, gently fluffing my ego with positive feedback and laughing with me when comic relief was the only way I could make it through the tears. When I wasn't typing away at my keyboard, I was putting pen to paper into journals of various sizes and colors. It was a messy form of therapy, but it still served me.
I was so absorbed in writing, I began setting goals for writing entire books. I drafted introductions and pieces to a few, sought permission to write about certain individuals. Hell, writing a book is still a goal in the back of my mind.
But then life got busy. And an amalgamation of little events and big realities shut off my desire to write anything worth sharing publicly.
If it hadn't been for the encouragement of a girlfriend who said that I wouldn't regret it, I went back to journaling last year. She said I needed a way to look back on my life and see how much I have grown. Back to journaling I went. Which turned into quite a regular habit. Then the habit evolved into dabbling in prose and poetry. And it has served me as a form of free therapy. Well, almost. Not like I'm walking out of a bookstore with a journal shoved under my shirt.
As for the purpose of this site, I have no goal for number of readers or thirsting after accolades and rounds of applause. I don't have the desire to submit an entry every Tuesday at 5:32pm. Some weeks, this site will see no change. Others, I might have all kinds of ridiculous words to share. I'm just trying to get back to sharing my writing again.
As for the title, I wavered between using one of two of my favorite beverages I enjoy by the campfire: tea and whiskey. Both warm the heart, both soothe the soul. But it's the shot of whiskey that gives you the courage to see the fire as something there to restore you, not destroy you.
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