literary me.

my life seems to be the constant forgetting and remembering. it’s cyclical. and for that i am thankful. it’s in those remembrances that i am fully aware, as if waking for the first time. like my short term memory fails me, and when it kicks in, i’m simply remembering that i do indeed have a purpose, a dream, a tug at my heart in the middle of the night…even though it gets tucked away for days at a time.

 

in times when i forget, this is the gentle reminder of who i am. what i do. my passion. it’s in my bones silently patiently waiting to be seen, heard, felt, remembered. it’s much more patient than i am. it’s the wind that fills my lungs and keeps me afloat.  it’s the driving force behind the tired eyes.

 

literary mama was a pinnacle for me. a dream i lusted after. i wanted to join that circle, i wanted to show up invited and wearing the right shoes. me, the runon sentence, me the editors nightmare, me the choppy thoughts splattered like jackson pollack on a screen.

 

i have devoured everything written between the pages. every thought. and at some point last summer i was brave enough to shine up some words in attempt to enter. ‘knock knock’ i said. and i was welcomed with open arms. 

 

so here i am today, a literary mama.