I am writing quite a bit. I’m just not doing much here.
My memoir suddenly makes sense to me in a way it hasn’t in the eighteen months I’ve been writing it. There was something nebulous and untouchable that surrounded this work, and it made me feel sketchy to work on it.
My memoir is a story about learning how to be myself and stay myself while in relationships. It’s not really a story about moving to Montana and gutting a house. It’s not about the endless internet dating. It’s not about cancer and it’s not about getting sober. And yet all those things might show up on the page.
I am developing an understanding of my own history. I wasn’t prepared for it. All I was prepared for was to be changed by the process.
This is just a short and sweet love letter to you, letting you know I appreciate that you read my words, that you show up here, and that you care. I am so grateful.