Who am I? I am untold, impenetrable, unsure and longing to come apart at the seams. Trying to write down all the stories in my head is like cracking open a coconut and squeezing the butter out of it.
Being a writer, however anonymous, sucks, and yet it is a dream come true. Some days we wake up with writer's block and our whole lives fall apart because we are unable to find a purpose or a love interest or a back story for our character. We try so hard to associate with our readers that we find it almost hopeless to try to reconnect with our families come sunset. But then we find ourselves in that one description, one phrase, one thoughtful comment from a reader, and the world is turning again.
Suffice it to say that I have no idea how to tell you who I am, what I do or how I came to be here. I honestly have no idea.
I do know that I think up stories to keep myself tethered to what passes for sanity. I love words and how they sound and what they paint and how they obliterate. I am thirty-five years old and I have no idea where I'm going or how I'm going to get there. I have three men in my life, my husband and my two little boys, who act both as anchors and balloons, depending on my need, and who adore me for who I am and what I'm trying to become.
I also know, with a knowing so deep it aches, that I am enough, and okay, and broken, and wonderful, and happy, because I am a main character in Someone's Book and He loves me more than words could ever describe.
And I'm really lucky to be awkward...!!
- JoinedApril 9, 2012