When psychotherapy discovered me in my late twenties, I wanted to write about my inner experiences like Hunter S. Thompson wrote about riding with the Hells Angels or being out of his mind on drugs in Las Vegas. My mind was new to me, although I’d been alive for nearly three decades. Sometimes I became more anxious than usual, which made daily life more difficult than I could ever remember it being. Most of my childhood remained hidden to me, but my dreams would take me there, to my early years, and thanks to lots of work with my Jungian psychotherapist, I started to remember more, in dreams and while awake, which meant that I was consciously starting to experience pain. I was better at avoiding pain back then, since I’d done everything possible to avoid it for as long as I could remember. The writer in me was also new in my late twenties. The aliveness that I felt in some of Hunter S. Thompson’s sentences inspired me to search for my own writing voice. The last twenty or so years have been a long journey, which I hope has many more miles ahead, since I plan on writing sentences until the last moment my body and mind allow me to. All of these sentences were born in images that came to me around an hour ago. I’d finished an editing project and was preparing myself coffee to help me through the rest of the day. What was I going to write about? I’d written some ideas down before preparing coffee. The images that came to me were of my life in my late twenties as I remembered it, a series of moments, when I was alone in the woods, camping on my parent’s property in the San Juan Islands, a city person out of his element, or maybe in the initial stages of discovering his new creative element. Dream images came to me in the woods and I welcomed them and imagined them, and I felt one with the trees, and most importantly, with myself. Those were difficult years for me. I wasn’t ready psychologically to share my life with anyone. I kept living and I kept writing, and here I am. And words have never left me.