I think it’s hailing again. Sounds very plinky outside.81929077_10157002196679010_1321322778531463168_n

I think I’m writing a short story; I’m close to 3k words. I don’t know how long it could be. It’s all waiting to be told. The idea came right as I was falling asleep, and I was paranoid I was going to forget it. I need to start a list on the Echo for stories I am going to forget, and then the kids can add poop to it just like they do on my shopping list. (It is mind-boggling how quickly I go through poop in this house.)

The sky matches how I feel when I write. At first, it’s so foggy, just one line or concept that I can kind of make out. I lose sight of myself and disappear into some void where words become sentences and a minute becomes an hour. Then, outlines appear, things start to happen, but there’s no me anymore. Just the void and a story becoming. Eventually, the sun pokes out or in this case, my bladder demands attention. The foggy void vanishes, waiting for me to go away so I can invent more worlds.

I love the void. Me and all my bullshit go in and something/someone new comes back. Maybe it’s a poem, maybe it’s a story, but I am the alchemist. I go into the unknown with my dark side and come out with a little gold nugget of me.


I’ve called myself a writer to 3 different people on 3 different occasions. In two separate appointments, I referred to my occupation as mother and writer. I surprised myself when I did it, almost like a hiccup of truth. It’s not that I don’t believe I am, it’s more that I don’t trust how easy it is to be. These cloudy skies are more of a palette for my imagination than baby blues could ever be. I swear anxiety is repressed creativity and depression is the collective weight of untold tales. My mental illnesses are as much misdirected inspiration as they are anything else. (Why write when you can scrub a kitchen for 8 hours straight, amirite???)

The hardest part about writing, for me, is not trying or wanting to write. “Write Do or do not, there is no try [or want to]” feels appropriate. There has been nothing more difficult than to be myself. “I am a writer” feels like an invocation. An invitation to become. Everything I’ve ever chased “I Am” with has become part of my story. Like we all do, everything I’ve set my mind to becomes reality (for better or for worse).

I’ve wanted to be a writer as long as I can remember. It’s not about being published or making money, I couldn’t care less and that doesn’t make a writer anyway. It’s taken years to re-learn what I knew instinctively as I started tapping away on the keys here in this blog. My shit has stank of pedantic, narcissistic, pedalling drivel for years now. It’s why I rarely post, I couldn’t stand my writing. Dishes were more pleasurable than this. One was relaxing, the other became the chore.


It’s not even that I haven’t made proclamations like this here before. I write here about writing or not writing more than I write, and generally, it’s better than 90% of the muck I do or do not write. This blog is where it all started, I started writing and saying I was a writer.  I didn’t care who read it or anything beyond the blissful feeling of writing. Frankly, I didn’t want anyone to read it, and when people started reading it, I started having panic attacks and deleted my blog. #selfsabatogeFTW


It’s the fact that I’ve started to finish stories. That fact has shifted, “I want to be a writer.” to apparently saying, “I am a writer”.  Decades of stops and starts precede this post. My google drive is filled with scraps I’ve written as I thank God there’s a cloud that captures all this now. Hard drives are rotting in landfills with stories I’ve never told anyone except me, lost now to time and memory. I’ve been on a journey to become myself, myself being a writer, being everything I ever wanted to be as a kid by letting go of all the things I hated about myself as an adult.


It all started because I stopped writing and started trying to write. Two extra words and my entire world shifts. I started caring, so I stopped writing. It’s a vicious cycle. “I write because I’m unhappy and I am unhappy because I don’t write” she types as she envisions Fat Bastard. I haven’t given up on myself again, I stopped writing my entire 20’s really, filing away my dream as nonsense and spending my imagination on creating living nightmares instead. I may have stopped writing for a few months at a clip, but never entirely.


Anyone can write. If you write for anything beyond the writing, you get the last few years I’ve hated my writing. A writer tells a story. A writer is the story becoming.  A writer comes back from the void and shares their gold nugget. 

I’ve always been good at writing. With my imagination, I’ve created a life that has brought me back to this void over and over. Whether it’s charging in with a fresh idea or crawling in begging for silence and peace. But, I’ve had far more turds than any other sort of nugget, so I keep going back.  I’ve never been able to finish my stories.

How could I?

“I was too busy letting others be the author of my most important story yet – my life.”

One of my first proclamations, the shotgun blast before I lost my mind and forgot everything I was trying to create while creating someone I’d rather forget.

The void became life. And as we all know, life imitates art.


Look at that, some baby blue peeking out.




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