Writing is a physical act.
Wanting to write, intending to write, and planning to write are not.
Turning a stack of yellow, #2 pencils one by one in my plastic schoolgirl sharpener, opening my notebook to the next empty line, and drawing the graphite point across the page in erratic cursive swoops and swirls that would make my 3rd grade teacher Mrs. Best cringe is how I get physical. When I get out of my head, drop down into my body, ignore the inner editor, and just feel the lead across the tooth of the paper, that’s when the writing begins.
I’d been a frustrated writer since the age of twelve, worried about whether I was doing it right. At 42 I embraced my voice, gave up the idea about how I was supposed to write, and just began. I gave myself permission to write the worst crap in the world, and some of it is. A lot of it. But some of it isn’t. That’s what I share here. When I began this blog, my intention was for it to be a portfolio of sorts, a place to show my work as a writer, a way to begin to share my work with a larger audience. It has become so much more.
My first blogpost was a poem, only the third one I’d ever created, that came out of me during a writing group session six weeks after my fiancé died of suicide. When I read the freshly-composed Found Receipt to the group, the universal response from the 11 other people around the table was, “stop holding back and start submitting your work for publication”. This blog is how I chose to begin publishing my work and it has led to incredible connections with people across the world, created by the open and vulnerable sharing of stories. Writing and sharing my words has been one of the most helpful means by which to navigate the grief of this past year, the most difficult of my life. Recently I created a page, Resources, where I’m adding other things I’ve found that have helped me through suffering and loss.
When I’m not writing poetry I pit and can cherries in red wine, turn wood, philosophize on early morning walks, create beauty any way I can, practice acceptance, and breathe. I call Seattle, Washington home.
Here you can read the blog I created for my restaurant, A Table Shared.