I've been trying to be more authentic and open with my thoughts and feelings on the new blog -- because to write is to be as honest as possible withoutcensoring your words for the world -- but it's scary.
For one, I don't want people to think I'm asking for their pity or attention or co-misery. Because I'm not.
Two, I have a hard time, still, being vulnerable. But the need for expression -- the need to let go and let it all out -- trumps my need for self-preservation. And so there I was. And here I am, also.
There will always be those who judge us by projecting their own assumptions on our true intentions. And to those people, I can't give a fuck about them. Often times, it's more of a reflection of who they are, and where their heart is at and has nothing -- absolutely fucking nothing -- to do with me. But that doesn't negate the fact that I have to remind myself of that lesson daily. All the time. Every time.
I have this odd feeling that it isn't a coincidence that my daughter is due this November, the same month as novel-writing month. It also can't be a coincidence that my supervisor told me about her good friend who just signed her debut novel due to be published next summer, all while she was working full-time, pregnant, raising a toddler.
There's been a book waiting inside of me -- waiting to be birthed into life -- for years going into more than a decade now.
The outline has been sitting there, collecting e-dust in Google Docs.
The ideas -- bits and pieces -- have been rotting, not growing.
The story -- still developing, not knowing how to start or where to go.
Every birthday, I pick a word. This year's was creation.
It can't be a coincidence.
