Writing is who I am, how I express myself, and how my heart heals. It is as necessary to my day as a cup of tea in the morning. When I don't write, I ache for it. But here is a little secret: I rarely share what I write. It is hard to share, difficult to overcome doubt, and not let my insecurities silence me. With the loss of my brother, I promised to let all this go and put myself out there, the good and the bad. Swallow the inevitable rejection and let it feed celebrated successes. It is hard to determine what success is, really, with writing. Most people think publication, and I agree a bit, but it is more than that. If my writing can touch someone, make someone think, cry, laugh, scream, pound their fists, then that is success. Yes, since I was six years old, I've dreamed of sitting in a stuffy, yet funky bookstore launching a book tour, I'm not going to lie. However, I'm learning that just sitting here every single day, in front of my computer or scribbling in my journal, is a small measure of success. Things are happening, my friends. I'm sending stuff out and people are sharing. I'm writing for a start up lifestyle magazine. I'm teaching writing again. I'm opening rejection letters with a smile. I'm writing what hurts and throwing myself out there. Funny thing is, things are happening.
If you'd like, a very personal piece is at The Ma Books.
Some fun reads are over at Reveal Her Magazine, of which I am a monthly contributor.
Following my other passion, styling, things are slowly stirring at Recycled or Redline Rags