Every writer needs a place to set down their pen. For some, it is a desk worn smooth by years of ink and thought; for others, it is a quiet room where a lamp glows past midnight. For me, it is here: The Inkstand.
This space will not be confined to one genre, nor hemmed in by a single theme. Some days I will weigh in on the affairs of our nation, where politics marches loud and history whispers in the wings. Other days I will bring the focus closer to home, to Keokuk and the stories that breathe through its streets and riverbanks. And, on certain evenings, you may find fragments of fiction—short tales, teasers of novels yet to be released, or glimpses of characters still finding their voices.
I will not promise uniformity, only honesty. The Inkstand will serve as both a public journal and a private crucible, where thoughts are tested against language until they harden into form. If a reader lingers here, I hope they find something more than commentary or narrative. I hope they find a resonance, a turn of phrase that latches onto memory, or a question that lingers after the page is closed.
The world does not lack for noise, but it does hunger for words that carry weight. My promise is to write not for the fleeting scroll but for the deeper pause.
So, welcome. Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee or perhaps something stronger, and settle in. The ink is fresh, the stand is ready, and the first page has only just been turned.
