My Year of Not Writing

But that’s not really true, is it?  Professionally, I write all day, every day.  I’ve probably churned out more pages in the last year than in the past five combined.  But I haven’t written in the way I feel I was meant to write–for myself, with emotion, with abandon.

I’ve promised myself (and I guess I promise you, if there is a “you” out there, reading this and caring?  I like to believe there’s a you) I’ll write again, when my life steadies itself, but I’m wondering if steadiness exists.  This past year has been…how to put this?  Bigger, messier, more beautiful, more cruel than anything I ever imagined.  I’ve been told on more than one occasion that my life sounds like a soap opera, which I guess makes me an interesting cocktail party guest, but sure as hell isn’t easy in the day-to-day, I-need-to-wake-up-and-be-a-functioning-human-and-manage-myself grind.  I’ve tried to put my reality into words, only to overwhelm myself.  (And obviously I feel an embarrassing amount of guilt over that, an almost Catholic level of guilt, and obviously I Google my PSU and FSU peers all the time and just blink stupidly at how brilliant and glitteringly successful they all are, and I’m not jealous, I’m too full of everything else to be jealous, it’s more like I’m comforted to see them in the real, non-soap-opera-ish world, thriving.)  I feel like I’m thriving in my own, complicated way.  I feel like I need to tell the story of this complicated thriving.  And I will; if you wait for me, reader, I will meet you where you are.

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