It's the third day since I made my decision.
In three days, I've learned more about myself than I have in the past three years.
Because I ignored my thoughts. I rejected my inner ramblings as just that—random bullshit nobody else would ever care about.
But the truth is, there's still time.
As the emails from my former business begin to pile, my mind is shedding weight.
(Good. 'cause my body sure doesn't drop it. Might as well let the mind shave a few off somewhere.)
I turned off the ringer on my phone. I silenced the notifications on my computer and tablet.
Now, all I have to do is write.
Write and be a mom.
Write and be a wife.
Write and be still.
It's maddening to a degree.
I've written a list every morning of all the tasks I could or should be doing each day. And I journaled almost everyday for a year.
But I never felt such clarity as I do in this very moment.
Maybe tomorrow won't be the same, but today I feel good. Today the light from the tall windows peeking into my living room shines bright across my black-rimmed glasses.
Classical music spews from the Amazon Echo, and I am still.
Today is the start to a whole new tomorrow. One I've let pass for at least a decade.
One I won't regret. No matter what happens.
Today, I am still.
I am still.
What do I want to do with this?
Hmm… Good question.
I don't want to get my hopes too high, but it's something to look forward to.
'How's your business going?'
'Fine.' I hate it.
My fingers are crossed, but I'm not sure if that's enough anymore.
They always end up letting you down.
It always happens in droves.
She caught me with the knife when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.
There's no winning with blame.
Every time I think I'm getting better at this whole life thing, I do something wrong and set it back.
I like getting older.
There's something about with age and experience comes wisdom that's exhilarating.
I'll see this one through, I tell myself. I'll finish it.
After this, I'll put it to bed. After this, I'll move forward.
Something I learned as a visual artist and writer is that some of the best healing comes from expression.
There's something surreal about standing in front of a crowd of strangers—writers who all want the same thing.
At the end of the Writers In Paradise sessions, everyone got a chance to present a refined version of their submitted work, or a new story they were working on.
I was the only teenager at Writers in Paradise with Dennis Lehane, Sterling Watson and other well-known authors back in 2006.