“I’m a writer,” I say, when asked what I do, though that isn’t quite the real story. As a publisher, I excel at conceptualization, delegation and then tweaking the final product to fit my vision, but it’s the in-between, the writing, that is conspicuously absent from my resume.

You see, as a publisher, I have no time to write. At least that’s what I tell myself. So what does a publisher, who calls herself a writer, but doesn’t really write, do when she is no longer a publisher?

After exploring the options, I keep coming back to writing. It just sits there, shrugging, a question unanswered. For me, writing is an awkward acquaintance with whom I have some history and the tantalizing promise of much more to come—it’s just a matter of breaking the ice.

Which brings me to this, my first stab at simply writing. For what purpose, I don’t know. A blog? A journal? A full-fledged autobiography? Everything and nothing is on the table at this point. What I do know is that I am about to make profound changes in my life. At 47, I am stepping away from everything that is familiar for a future that is so wildly open that some documentation is in order.

And so I will write. I will write as a way to ground myself during this transition, to prevent myself from being hasty and to give myself time to reflect. Writing will tether me to the past, keep me in the present and follow me into the future.