I published my first poem when I was in middle school. Man was I excited. Young Poets of America. Remember that jam? Even after realizing I straight up bought my piece of fame, I was undeterred. I wrote my way through journals, heart-scribbled notebooks, and reams of dot matrix printer paper. Reams.
Almost 30 years and zero publications later, I've once again found refuge in writing. I didn't expect it. Not really. I assumed my tiny brain was irreversibly gummed with the formulaic processes of grant applications and technical papers.
My family didn't expect it either. I have declared evenings and weekends mine. I lock myself in a room, screaming about my custodial writer rights. Rights to this time. That space. My kids cry. My husband asks me if I need another whiskey. And I write.
Almost 30 years and zero publications later, I've once again found refuge in writing. I didn't expect it. Not really. I assumed my tiny brain was irreversibly gummed with the formulaic processes of grant applications and technical papers.
My family didn't expect it either. I have declared evenings and weekends mine. I lock myself in a room, screaming about my custodial writer rights. Rights to this time. That space. My kids cry. My husband asks me if I need another whiskey. And I write.
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ~Ray Bradbury