it was a dark & stormy night…

as tornadoes and thunderstorms tear up an early december evening in illinois, i contemplate my newfound faith in myself.

it turns out that i am not content to take myself seriously solely an artist. the writer inside of me is also demanding attention.

whenever i start reading a lot of fiction (which i have been doing lately,) my inner writer gets stirred up. anymore, i can’t help but to take a story apart as i read it to see what works & what does not. this is actually a trait that has only recently developed in me. it used to be i got so lost in a story i didn’t know which way was up. which–it turns out–is a bit of a handicap as a writer.
being able to now analyze and dissect stories has me thinking i should be reading more of my own writings.
like this pile of works from the late 80s & early 90s. two books, some short stories, and flash fiction pieces written before i knew there was such a thing as flash fiction. 
my sister bound the one up like that. it is 300 some pages of double spaceed content–so not as huge as it appears.
note that i was using yet another version of my name for that one.

so!
the minions are away. i have two art commissions to work on. other than that, i will be poring through short stories, forgotten novels, and journals & journals & more journals with the crazy idea that i might have not one story to tell but three? four? more?

i know, you’re thinking “baby steps!” but i think i am just going to jump on into the deep end–you know, knowing how much i love a challenge. 
(i am my favorite challenge)
plus as a gloriously blooming late bloomer, i got some ground to cover to get to where i need to get to.

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i need more notebooks

i have decided
on my weapon of choice
it is my pen
my literal fucking pen
like my blood
runs black
with ink
pen
of course it is my pen
what else would it be
why does it take me 
a lifetime
to figure out something
i knew
before i started searching
for an
answer?

okay. so. for me to write…i actually have to write…not type. for me to create, i have to move my hands. i have to doodle. i have to feel the paper under my skin. 
longhand is the language i speak.
otherwise, it just doesn’t work. i have a beginning. a page or two. and then i wander off, trusting my laptop to keep it safe should i ever wander back.
but!
put it on paper. lay that notebook on top of my laptop. or carry it with me everywhere i go….
now that
that is writing.
so yes. i started writing…only to realize, i need more notebooks.

ps. i set up a ko-fi account last night when i was avoiding confronting my desire to start working on a collection from my art journal series….
so! if you want, you can now buy me a coffee notebook

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