Monday, November 11, 2013


Normally when I write, I start one of two ways.  I start with an idea or story and mull it over in my head until I hear it work.  Or, I start in the moment and write where I am and see where I end up.

I don't have an idea today.  And if I start in the moment, with my fluffy red socks, with Peg Plus Cat on the TV, with my pajama clad daughter's foot on my stomach, with the empty coffee cup I keep absentmindedly lifting to my lips, with the overflowing laundry basket in the middle of the room, if I tell the truth as it is now, will anyone still be reading?

There's truth and then there's Truth.

Every morning, I'm on the couch.  The TV's on.  I stare absent-mindedly at Twitter, longing for a time when Twitter felt like playing, like I was at a party where everyone liked me, where it felt like a break instead of feeling like nothing.

Every day I empty my dishwasher.  Every day I fold laundry.  Every day I get dressed.  I make breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  I watch my daughter color.  I read Olivia, Green Eggs and Ham, Madeline.

That's what I do.

That's not who I am.

I am a mother.  I am a reader.  I am a writer.  I am compassionate and empathic.  I am wise.  I am goofy.  I like wordplay.  I like crossword puzzles.  I like psychology and brain theory.  I live in my head and in the computer and in the world.  I believe in the power of words and the power of love.  I believe that the ordinary things matter as much as the extraordinary.

I am someone.  I am not what I do.

I want to write the truth, I want to be authentic.  I want to be the same me everywhere I go.  I want to live a life out loud, to not be ashamed or afraid.  But I'm not my laundry, and I'm not my depression, and (even though I really forget this one) I'm not my kids.

I want to tell the truth, but I don't even really know what it is.  There's something in my head that I desperately want to get out there but I don't know how to say it or how to even hear it.  I want to be seen.  Me.  The real me.  Sometimes I feel like the more I talk, the less people understand.

NaBloPoMo November 2013


  1. Sending you a virtual hug. I don't know if that's what you need, but I'm not sure what else to say or do.

  2. I hope you are able to get out what it is you want to say. What would living out loud be like? Hugs to you.

  3. I have felt that way too--as if the words I have can't tell my story.

  4. I have definitely felt like this at times. Hang in there and keep writing! ((( hugs )))

  5. It is scary to live out loud and be the same you. It takes time, but you will get there. xoxo