Sometimes life doesn’t give you what you expect. And sometimes that’s okay.
I haven’t written in a while. Not because I haven’t wanted to. Not because I don’t have things to say. It’s just…
There hasn’t been time.
I have thoughts about guilt, family, priorities, life, plans, the unexpected, the past, the future, poetry… (I need to write another poem.)
And perhaps tomorrow I’ll find the time. Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll be able to breathe. As for today… I don’t want to blow surprises by giving rushed summaries because my mind is hurried. And so, please…
How many posts will I write like this, at the end of the work day, in the silence of the office? Just me and the clicking of keys on a keyboard in the cubicle beside me? There’s a man over there who works in a different part of the Agency – I don’t know his name or what he looks like or what he does. But I always know he’s over there because of his clicking… It’s sad when life is to be spent working in cubicles. But then again, life and work in cubicles is important, too…
And I try so hard to be diligent at work, but if I always wait until 5pm…? My posts end up looking like this.
Thanks for writing that very nice article about us three new administratoris in Geyserville. It is always nice to see positive press in the newspapers, or at least a balance. You write very well–clear, concise, and not a lot of fluff. So, thank you again and let us know if you need anything else down the road.
It’s comments like these that tell me I’m right: I was meant to be a writer. No, not a reporter. A writer.
The article this man mentions is located here. It’s an assignment I got as a freelancer at a local paper here in Santa Rosa. It’s a position I got after being rejected yet again for a full-time reporting job. It’s an opportunity to produce clips and, hopefully, make (more) connections.
My half Ironman was this past Sunday. It didn’t go as planned. I will write more soon, but, in the meantime, thank you–all of you–for your encouragement over these past few years.
I had it all worked out. And then it didn’t.
I was working as a *teacher’s assistant, applying for jobs elsewhere. The teaching thing wasn’t going well: my student was a nightmare. I dreaded going to work every day, and then —
A reporting job came available. It was at a small paper twenty miles away, and it was perfect. The staff was small; the paper, bi-weekly. I didn’t have a lot of experience, but, surely I stood a chance here.
I had an interview; it went well. Wrote a test article; it went went well, too. And then I waited. And waited. The editor had had a few more interviews to do, so . . . Continue reading
Bloody Sunday. Selma. These are names, places, that ring bells in many Americans’ minds. My boyfriend grew up in Alabama. He says every Alabamian’s skin prickles when they hear these terms.
No one has good recollections of Selma.
I won’t tell you all of the things that happened on Bloody Sunday. I myself didn’t know the story until recently. I was writing an article for the newspaper. A local man was there when it happened. He had his story to tell. So it goes.
So it goes that, back in the sixties, African-Americans weren’t allowed to vote — even though they legally were. In the South, in places like Selma, only two percent of blacks had been able to register. Because of this, and because of the senseless killing of a man named Jimmie Lee Jackson, protestors organized a march from Selma to Montgomery on March 7, 1965. They were trying to gain national support for their cause. They were trying to gain what should have already had: Equality. Continue reading
I was trying to write a children’s story. I wasn’t any good at it.
My language was too dense.
My thoughts, too dull.
My words too extreme.
My heart, too full.
Because you see…
Life is hard, children. And we make it that way. We grow from you — so innocent, wide-eyed, full of joy — and turn into…? Monsters. We are monsters, children. Everyone one of us. Even the best of us. Monsters. Continue reading
It may be old news to some, or too distant to matter for others, but for me, the King Fire hits home.
Placerville is my hometown. Pollock Pines is just up the road. I can’t count the number of times I’ve driven past this sign on my way home from Lake Tahoe. Continue reading
Tell tell a story.
To tell our stories.
To share our hearts.
To fall apart.
To pull ourselves together.
To breathe in.
To kill hope.
To send secret messages.
We write because we have no other choice.
Because writing consumes us or we consume it.
Because it gives voice to our tears, wind to our wings, air to our everything.
We write because we are alive.
Why do you write? Do you?
“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”
— Lord Byron