I’ve noticed a trend making the rounds here and in other writing spaces. People are feeling burnt out. They struggle with writer’s block, or publishing block, or I-am-going-to-scream-if-I-have-to-add-one-more-thing-to-my-day [I just made up that last one, but bear with me].
Many of us who write here or on other websites aren’t doing it as the main event of our day-to-day. It’s a passion project, or a side hustle, or an exploration of what day-to-day could be like if we jumped into writing full-time.
I’ve been writing on this platform for over a year and have enjoyed it very much. Meeting incredible…
Someone asked me the other day, why do you write under so many fake names. Initially, I was irritated. First off, there is a difference between intentionally selling a false narrative and using a pen name to protect yourself.
With that being said, this person hasn’t been with me from the beginning. They aren’t part of my community.
When I started writing here in January of 2020, I didn’t know anyone, and I had no expectations. I wrote aimlessly. I wrote things I thought people might be interested in [please excuse everything from January through March].
There was no purpose…
I wish I’d never deleted
all the words you left me with.
They were all I had to hold
now that you’re gone.
I write about you as if I’ll never
see you again, but I do, every time
I close my eyes. You only come
to me in dreams, which are less
like dreams, and more like
nightmares — painful reminders
you are so far out of reach.
It’s not often that I fall asleep
these days, too afraid you’ll be
there, sitting in my mind’s eye.
Watching me writhe in visceral pain, the pressure in my chest continuing…
For better or worse. For richer or poorer. What’s mine is yours.
In 2012, when I said those words, I meant them and not just because I lived in a martial-property state.
I was a hopeless romantic. Never for a moment did it cross my mind that my spouse might take advantage of the blind faith I put in our marriage, that I put in him, regarding our finances.
I was young and didn’t know the facts. The reality is financial abuse occurs in 99% of domestic abuse cases. My parents had joint finances, my grandparents had joint finances, and…
The struggle is real. Truthfully, I hate that phrase, but it’s the only one that feels appropriate for this first quarter of 2021.
There is this desire, this inspiration to build something, something that serves a bigger purpose, but lately, I can’t find the words.
Call it writer’s block, or burnout, or procrastination.
Call it something, call it anything.
Identify this limbo I’m suspended in so I can find a solution.
There are 17 drafts, 39 bookmarked stories, and a partridge in a pear tree.
Unanswered emails from people dropping a note to tell me how helpful a piece I…
I am Catholic, born and raised. So is my mother, as were her parents, and theirs, and on and on back to their roots in Ireland.
In the years since I left my parent’s home, I kept the faith, but it wasn’t as alive and well as it had been my entire life.
The older I got, the more negative experiences I had, the less I believed. I’ve always been a faithful person, but there was just too much conflicting information, too many experiences unsupported by the way the Catholic church said things would and should be.
My perception and…
Will you ever love me again,
like you did when we were young?
Foolish, passionate, untamed
adoration — after all, you were
the one who loved me best. I pray
you feel the same, even if our season
has run its course. On occasion, I
feel as though I’ve lost my mind
always running back through the
sands of time. Turn the hourglass up
and down, bring me back to when you
were mine. But you never were, were you?
Memories of time shared in our
safe space. No one could ever take
your place, so I keep these thoughts…
It’s not often that I feel good, or even great, about my physical body these days. But I have to admit, the other day I ran to the grocery store, and actually got dressed (read as didn’t wear my lounge clothes out of the house).
And damn — I was feeling myself (as the kids would say).
Cute black and white striped Converse that matched solid black Adidas leggings with the logo boldly printed in white on my calf. A blush pink hoodie, with my warm hat that I could pull my insanely bushy, blonde ponytail out of. …
Coffee fanatic, with a dramatic inner dialogue — a poet and Historical fiction enthusiast, longing for a time that’s gone — an old soul — Writer of fiction