Fiction, Reality & Almost 31

My favorite author once said that books belong to their readers,

I believe that about songs too.

That listeners own the song the minute it hits their ears.

That’s what’s sort of scary about artistry. 

It doesn’t belong to you.

You don’t actually own it.

You can’t always tell readers how that one piece of dialogue was intended.

You can’t always tell readers what connotations, inflections, insinuations, tones were meant to be present.

You can describe a character, but you can’t make them picture them the way you see them.

Writing is hard.

Writing is one of those weird things that’s so ego driven, but when you let your ego drive, it will stifle all of it.

Make it ride in the backseat.

Drive yourself, and let the ego tell you when something is good. Or when you need to stop at the QuikTrip for some beef jerky.

Writing is sort of like thrifting.

Some days, you’re going to be disappointed and hate the smell of moth balls.

Some days, you’re gonna find the best thing ever, and wear it out more times than you can count.

In a matter of months, I get to see an artist I thought I would never get to lay eyes on.

I get to witness an artist that has shaped my art time and time again.

Contributed massive amounts of creativity to my own writing.

I get to see a woman who I greatly revere. 

And while I have been spending time worrying about my outfit, the main thing that matters is this:

A person who convinced me that I can write is a person I get to live in the same world with - 

Breathe the same air with-

Even if it’s only temporary. 

Love her or hate her, she is a guidepost for girls and women who needed a harbor to tie off their worries and cares and meet her there.  

We needed her.

We needed to be reminded that girl art, women’s art is still crucial. 

It still matters.

Because trust me, they tried to tell us it didn’t.

They tried to tell us we weren’t worth hearing.

For a minute, it felt like we were Ariel, and the world was Ursula, and we’d made a bargain we didn’t mean to sign on the dotted line for.

Lately, friends are hard.

I’m turning 31 in like 10 days, and I can’t help but see how much transition my friends from all walks of life are in.

Marriage, kids, new jobs, hookups, late nights, early nights, scheduling months out, meeting for lunch without warning.

My family gets older. Age is starting to show. 

Some days, it scares me.

Some days, I feel so lucky I can’t breathe.

Life is sort of hard.

Holidays, anniversaries (good and bad), birthdays, obligations. 

We have so much to look forward to and so much to look back on and so much to question -

And we’re only thirty.

I’m writing a novel.

It’s hard.

Characters talk to me in my dreams but abandon me in the daylight.

I forget the rules of grammar multiple times whilst editing, and I sillily worry about the content my family will one day read. 

I say this one particular thing whenever I really don’t know what to do. 

I said it when I quit my job. I’ve said it about my mental. I’ll say it now about the next year of my life.

Am I staying here? Am I leaving? Am I actually going to accomplish my life’s dream? Am I going to order McDonald’s breakfast again?

The thing is I don’t know. I don’t know what the answers are right now.

I have love, and I know places. So I’ll figure it out.

But scary stays scary no matter how old you get or how much you try to white knuckle it.

So here’s where I leave you. With the phrase that sums it all up for me:

I feel unmoored.

But that’s okay.