I should go outside. I should want to go outside. I know the air is cool as gloaming approaches. The sun would lightly toast my skin into marshmallowy gooeyness. I can see dew on the rustling leaves outside my window. It’s probably nice. But I’m still here, rolling around in stale sheets scented with sweat. I don’t know exactly what I should do or if I should not do or if somehow I have already made my choice by lying here.
There’s a hopeless guilt in hiding. Of letting the limpness of my resignation overtake me. To sink in between…
At some point, we ask how we got to the present moment. We are snapped out of its trance and become more aware.
I looked up at the clock at realized I had been watching an Australian cow veterinarian perform castrations and field necropsies for two hours when my husband and I were supposed to have been resuming Alien Versus Predator.
Anything we consume online is curated to maximize our exposure to products or services we are more likely to buy. Advertising is a powerful and effective tool. While it has seems a tiny, imperceptible bell, recommendations also drive purchasing…
I never enjoyed writing classes. As a preteen, I felt dwarfed by more skilled writers. They had committed to it as their life’s work, while I felt like a dabbler.
Understandably, I lacked confidence in my work and was always searching for a voice, often mimicking someone else. Why didn’t I think of that idea? Prompts were a nightmare of anxiety and shame. Was my work even good enough to be heard?
I abandoned creative writing for over 20 years.
I returned in earnest in January 2021. I had broken down the false dichotomy of creative and logical self living…
“Have you ever been kidnapped?”
“Have you been in a natural disaster?”
I answered quickly and dutifully. “No.”
“What is your sexual orientation?”
I paused. This answer was not so simple. “I’m still kind of figuring that out. Umm… I guess maybe… mostly heterosexual?”
I had decided a year earlier that the term heterosexual felt like a room of stifling air. Then I found this word queer and it was like someone put in a small window with pale blue curtains. Breeze flowed in.
Shrugging, my psychiatrist turned to her notes. “Sexual orientation: Uncertain.”
That was when I first came…
It’s a familiar image: a frustrated writer sits at their desk facing a blank page. The page stares back like an endless void, mocking the writer from a universe away. The writer lifts their fingers to strike a key or pick up a pen, then their motion is arrested by the lack of content for that transcribing instrument. Words float in their head and form nothing. Sometimes a single sentence is laid down. Progress! But it’s deleted, crumpled up, or thrown away.
Writer’s block has been recognized for centuries but the term itself was coined in 1947 by psychoanalyst Edmund…
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