Sometimes out of death comes life.
A month before I started Megan's Minute, a good friend of mine, I'll call him CR, had a stroke and died. He was 59 years old.
He was a brilliant, funny, often infuriating man who lived and breathed, photography, film and literature. He was proudly anti-social, unapologetically liberal and would have been as astounded as anyone to see that a black man was now President of the United States.
CR was also an incredible writer, but when he died, his novel was unpublished and his screenplays unmade. Only those of us who knew him well knew what a wonderfully entertaining and imaginative writer he was.
The last time I saw CR was months before he died. My last contact with him was exchanged emails the Christmas before he died saying how we had to get together soon.
After hearing of his death, I was devastated that the "get together" would never happen. And mixed in with the grief of his loss was the thought that no one else would ever read his work.
Why am I telling you this?
It's simple. I've always believed myself to be a writer. I've written stories, screenplays, and portions of novels, but never had the courage or the commitment to jump in feet first and find out if I had what it took to make a living as a writer.
After CR died, I discovered I desperately needed for someone to read my work. Even if it was only five people whose names I never knew.
I'd already been considering blogging thanks to my friend Island Girl. And after CR died, that was the push I needed to get me past the fear of my work not being good enough, or perfect enough, or whatever.
I chose Valentine's Day 2007 for my first post because it was a Valentine to myself. A commitment to myself, my work and what I hoped would be a new future.
So at 11:55PM--it took me until the end of the day to summon my courage--I clicked "post" and my first Megan's Minute post went live.