This photo makes no sense here but it was cool so I used it anyway.
Do you ever have times when you feel you have so much to say but have no idea how to put it into words? Times when you can feel a tornado of truth swirling around in your head and you are desperate to give it life and meaning, then you remember there’s a limit to how much authenticity the world wants to receive, so you keep it to yourself?
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Just a bunch of peppers, lined up and waiting for refrigeration. Notice how effective the sign is? Notice how it’s my mug?
I’m starting to notice an unsettling habit amongst the female writers I follow who also happen to be parents of small children. They all seem to get up at ungodly hours in order to practice their craft. I can see, on some levels, how this would be ideal. You would be alone, which would mean not having to field umpteen questions about food, play dates or the location of one particular sock. Where I get stuck is how one puts it into practice. The biggest stumbling block for me is coffee.
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For the longest time, I assumed the desire to put my own words, photographs, and perspectives out into the universe was largely attached to some faulty area of my ego. A shadowy region that’s been hiding since childhood when it seemed everyone in the world was trying to push me out and shut me up. (In reality, it was mostly one kid, but she was very good at it and managed to convince dozens of my peers to follow suit. Hopefully, she is putting those powers of persuasion to good use as an adult.) If I can write well enough, I argued, people will notice me. My existence will have value. And I will have proven that I belong.
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