You Better Work, B.

It’s windy today. June-uary is in full swing here in Washington. I am almost done with what will hopefully be the last draft of my first book. When I say “the last draft” I know it won’t be. I know that if my book gets picked up one day, I will undoubtedly need to rewrite a vast majority. But for today, I hope it will be the last draft because damnit it’s been six years since I started this project. Granted, when I did start piecing together ideas it was nothing like the near-finished version sitting on my computer and backup hard drive. Nothing. But still.

I was making dinner last night for my family, and realizing I started this book six years ago. Six. My son was only two years old and now he is eight. That is insane. Anyway, I started beating myself up about taking so long to finish things I had created, and then I realized that while I have been writing this deep book I’ve also been learning how to write. How to better my craft. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a lot of work to do, but I can see a noticeable difference in my work today compared with what I put out six years ago. Maybe that’s why I don’t blog as often as I would like. I’m afraid of some “real” writer stumbling upon this tiny website, reading through my posts, correcting grammar, and shaking their head at poorly punctuated sentences. When in reality, I doubt anybody out there reads any of my posts. And I’m ok with that. For right now at least. I know that I have a hunger deep in my belly to succeed in this industry. I don’t mean the bestseller, or making a livelihood, although both would be nice. I mean getting better at this thing that I have loved since I was a child. Putting thought to paper and in doing so touching the soul of another human. If I can improve, if I can help someone through what I have put out into the world, I will consider myself a success. I realize how naive and romantic this might sound, but there I go again, trying to belittle my ability to save face to someone who might not even exist. There I go trying to convince the voices in my head that I deserve to put forth my thoughts and ideas into the world.

In my last job, which was also creative I could hide behind a brand name and products, but this…this is different. Which is why I love it. Which is why it terrifies me. Everything is all wrapped up together. Everything is spread bare. My tea is gone now, so this blog post must be over. I will continue to think about it as I go upstairs and put my dirty mug in the kitchen. As I put on my shoes and jacket, and go pick up the kids from school. I will ponder these thoughts as I make dinner tonight, and help small legs step into pajamas. I will think over them as I kiss foreheads goodnight and say a prayer over each of them. By the end of the evening, I will probably remember that everyone, including myself, has a right to practice their art, as long as they are willing to do the work, and I have never been afraid of hard work. Tomorrow I will get up and in the few quiet minutes during the twins’ rest time I will plop myself down at this computer, and I will work.

-Helen

The “Good Night Routine”

It started with my old college French lessons coming out one night while putting our son to bed. 

"Hey Bud." I said to our then 5-year-old "Do you know how to say good night in French?"

"How?" he answered, sitting up slightly in bed.

"Bonne Nuit." I answered.

"BONE NEW-EE" he repeated slowly, feeling the foreign sounds on his lips.

"Yep." I said smiling. "We should add it to our bedtime, don't you think?"

"Yeah! He said excitedly, "And we can add other ways of saying good night and learn them!"

"Sure, Bud." I smiled back, "we can do that." And we did. 

Three and a half years later and every night after prayers we run through our list of "good nights". French, Russian, Portuguese, Thai, Dari, Spanish, Kru, and Hebrew. Over the years we reached out to family and friends we know who speak other languages. One afternoon we called my sister-in-law who is from Brazil and listened as she taught us the word Boa Noite. "BOAH-NO-EET-TA" my son and I repeated back to her. A few weeks later, when he started Spanish lessons, we added "Buenas Noches" to our list. 

Weeks folded into months, and months turned into years as we added more words to our growing list. Once we chatted to my son's newest Uncle, and he taught us how to say Good Night in Hebrew. We practiced moving our tongues over the first "LEILA" and then savored the way the "TOB" ended in a soft "V" sound. When Daddy started learning a new language for work, we added "ราตรีสวัสดิ์" and learned how to say Good Night in Thai. One call to my son's first Nanny, someone who even after all these years, is part of our family and we learned how to say "спокойной ночи". My son laughed and told her it sounded like we were saying "Spoiled Nachos" instead of Spokoynoy Nochi or Good Night in Russian. When my younger sister and her husband came to visit last Spring, my brother-in-law taught us how to say Good Night in Dari. "شب بخیر" sounded soft at the beginning with the "Sh-OW" and then throaty as we finished the phrase "huSHK". My son laughed as he listened to his uncle explain how to use the back of your mouth to get the guttural sound. The list continued to grow with new phrases taught to us by those we loved. 

Every night we repeat this list of "Good Nights". Little sounds that when strung together send my son off to sleep each night. These sounds represent so many diverse backgrounds from our family and friends, and while they all sound different from each other, they all mean the same thing: "Good Night". Vastly different, yet all the same. 

Good Night,

-HR

Waiting for a Mammogram

I was 12 years old when I got my first bra.

My mom came into my room to give me the garment that would transport me into womanhood.

A rite of passage.

A gangly teenager, I watched my cotton t-shirts fill out.

Wondering how big the new mounds would get,

noticing how differently boys and men looked at me

now that my chest wasn’t flat like a child’s.

In college, I wore sports bras and wished my bust was smaller,

as I ran circles on the track field.

I didn’t want the bounce or the attention they gave me.

Excuse me, sir, my face is up here.

When I started dating,

I was told I was beautiful,

and my tits were noted as perfect.

I used that power but hated it at the same time.

Aren’t they just fatty tissue?

Don’t you care about my mind too?

On my wedding day,

my cleavage looked breathtaking in white silk.

I loved the way my new husband traced my curves with his eyes.

Happily, I was no longer just my own.

Years later, we brought small bundles home from the hospital.

Babies that sucked nutrients out of me.

Swollen and life-giving,

my breasts were no longer just for pleasure.

They were sustaining new life.

Now, mid-30s with three kids,

my ta-tas are no longer as perky as they once were,

but I am proud for what they have accomplished.

And grateful they still hold up in a bikini.

But, everything changed last month,

when sister and Mother were diagnosed.

Words like “Lobular carcinoma”, “high risk”, and “double mastectomy”.

plague me as I wait for my mammogram.

and gaze into the mirror at my once innocent breasts.

I no longer see what I once saw:

graceful curves, feminine power, and life-giving comfort.

Now all I can do is wonder,

what horrors lay hidden beneath fatty tissue.

Piles of tumors, that will be sliced off,

to try and save my very life.

Ear Irrigation and Post-War Compartmentalization.

Today, I found out it is World Mental Health Day. I didn’t realize it was today until later this afternoon and all evening I have been thinking about things to write about today. Should I talk about the specific issues I face as a Military Spouse? Or a middle child from a big family? Maybe I should mention my experience with postpartum depression? Instead, I decided I will write about what happened today, because I realized something today, something that despite being married to someone in the Military for the past 15 years I never noticed.

Today, I did a stupid thing. After a nice workout this morning, I jumped in the shower for a quick rinse before taking the twins to preschool for the afternoon. After my shower I threw on some clothes and helped the twins get ready.

“Ok, babes. I just have to clean my ears and then we’ll leave ok?”

I went back into my bathroom and grabbed a few q-tip and carefully cleaned one ear after another. I hate that wet ear feeling and clean my ears after each shower. When I pulled back the q-tip from my left ear, the soft fluff of cotton was no longer there. It was stuck. Inside my ear.

“Shit.”

I took the kids to school since we were running late and texted my neighbor when I got home to see if they could help me out. No such luck. The fluff was now deep into my ear canal by now and it hurt. To make matters worse my hearing was getting worse on that side too. Now what. I knew my husband was going to be home relatively early today, and I also knew he had irrigated some of his friend’s ears while on deployment in the sandbox. Maybe he could come home and help me out so I could avoid a trip to the urgent care. It was worth a shot. I dialed his number. Now, I never call my husband while he is at work, unless it’s a huge emergency. So, I wasn’t that surprised when he picked up on the second ring, sounding worried.

“What’s up?” His answer was brisk and I could hear heavy metal music and voices in the background of the team room.

“Hey baby.” I said in a calm and steady voice, “first of all, I am fine.”

“Jesus, baby.” he exhaled on the other end, I could hear the worry and slight irritation in his voice.

“I’m really fine.” I said, “It’s silly actually but…” and I explained the whole story to him.

“You know you’re not supposed to put those in your ears.” His response took me aback a little bit, especially since I had told him how I was in pain, and it was increasing.

“What do you mean? I was cleaning my ears out.” I was annoyed that he was focusing on correcting my methods of hygiene rather than showing compassion for my painful and somewhat awkward predicament. “It’s fine if you can’t come home, but I’m going to go into urgent care.”

“No, I can do it.” The music was loud in the background as I heard him shuffling things around on his desk, “Let me just finish up a few things and I’ll be on my way. Ok?” He was to direct and to the point. I said thanks and hung up.

Forty-five minutes later my husband walked into our home. I was on a call for work in the dining room and heard him head straight to the hall closet to get his supplies. He appeared a few minutes later ladened with items. He started setting things up as I wrapped up my call. After I hung up, I took a deep breath.

“Thank you. I’m sorry you had to come home for this. Does everyone at work think I’m ridiculous?”

He nodded as he moved quickly, but with exact precision and asked which ear hurt. He told me the guys at work all agreed with him that I should not have put a q-tip into my ear to clean it. I was annoyed at the jab, but let it go. After a few minutes it was determined that the fluff was too deep to extract with tweezers and he would have to irrigate my ear with water, hydrogen peroxide, a syringe and a long tube. I was a little nervous as he prepared everything.

“Will this hurt?” as I turned my head and leaned over the kitchen sink.

“Not a bit.” he said automatically, his hands moving swiftly with the tools.

It did hurt. Cold water rushed into my ear and I felt my equilibrium start to shift. My knees bent and I could feel the pressure building inside my ear.

“Alright. Turn your head. It’s going to be ok. Hold it there.” My husband's voice was steady as he pushed more solution into my ear, hoping to push out the wedged cotton ball.

I clenched the edge of the sink. Now, I have a pretty high pain tolerance, but I’m pretty prone to fainting and feeling lightheaded on a normal day, so this was really uncomfortable. After a few minutes, my husband informed me that he was done and nothing came out of my ear.

“Sorry, babe. It must still be in there.” He grabbed a kitchen towel and helped me clean up my face and neck. I stood up gently, holding onto my husband in front of me and immediately felt like I was going to throw up.

“I don’t feel good.” I said, sitting down in the middle of the kitchen floor. My husband helped me to the ground and started cleaning his tools at the sink.

“I think I’m going to throw up.” I said suddenly, a wave of nausea hitting me.

My husband of 15 years walked across the room and grabbed a big pot, and squated down in front of me.

“Yeah, it’s not a fun experience.” he said, looking at me and then the pot.

Once it was clear I wasn’t going to throw up, I laid down on the floor, watching it spin slightly as he started cleaning up his tools in the sink.

“I don’t feel good.” I said, afraid I would faint any minute. I hate it when I faint. He continued to clean his instruments.

“Sorry, babe. You’re going to have to go to urgent care." He was standing on the other side of the room now, his arms folded across his chest as he watched me on the floor, as I tried to regain my composure.

“I don’t like how you made fun of me.” I said, shutting my eyes and trying to quell the nausea rising up.

“What?” His head turned slightly, trying to figure out what I was saying.

“You just keep telling me what I wasn’t supposed to do, instead of asking if I was ok, or how I felt.” I said squinting up at him, wishing he would just come over and give me a hug.

“You’re not supposed to put q-tips that far into your ear.” you said your arms still folded, your tone a little annoyed and incredulous.

“It doesn’t matter. I clean my ears like that all the time. It was just a fluke thing that happened. I didn’t do anything wrong.” By this point I had propped myself up to a sitting position and slowly, holding onto the cabinet, stood up to standing.

Still, you stood there, looking at me.

“You’re supposed to ask if I’m ok and show some compassion. Especially since I told you I was in pain.” I looked at your face and saw something suddenly click into place.

You walked towards me, arms outstretched and pulled me into a hug.

“I’m sorry babe. Are you ok?” your voice was gentle and comforting now.

“I’m ok.” I said leaning into you “But I can’t drive. Can you take me to urgent care?”

Fifteen minutes later you are driving us to the clinic. I keep a hand on the side of my face to massage my ear, and try not to think about throwing up.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” You say, “I was being a jerk. I’m sorry.”

I’m quiet for a minute.

“It’s ok.” I answer. “But you know what I just realized?”

“What?” you ask, shifting into a higher gear.

"You’re kind of a different person at work. And it takes you a minute to become your normal husband self.”

You laugh “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I didn’t realize it until today. Normally you have time to chill on your drive home, but since I called you in the middle of your day and you weren’t expecting it you came home as “team guy”. You know?”

“Yeah, I guess it takes me a second to remember how to interact with you. Like, what would a normal person say in this situation.” You say.

“Yeah. I just always thought it only happens when you go to war. Like, you become “war guy” over there and then slowly over reintegration become “husband guy” again, but I just realized” I say looking over at you with surprise “I think you make the transformation everyday.”

You raise your eyebrows and nod as we drive along.

“Yeah” you finally say, “That sounds about right.”

We sit in silence for a second processing our lives and the many compartments you store yourself into on a daily basis. Compartments that you and I have to open, clear out and put back together in order to successfully communicate on a daily basis and add another year to our marriage. People talk alot about compartmentalization and war, but I never realized it follows you home into this post-war, ear irrigation random Tuesday afternoon that was today.

You pull up to the clinic to drop me off and then go get our three kids from school.

“I love you, you know.” you say out the open window, as I slam the van door closed.

“I love you too.” I answer “See you in a bit.” and I turn to head into urgent care to see about a tiny piece of cotton that has managed to expose something huge that I never realized about our marraige.

-Helen

I am a writer

I realized last night, for the first time in my life, that I am a writer. Not because of the number of words I have written this month. Not because after years of working on my craft I am starting to see progress. Not because I have published any books (I haven’t) I am a writer because after I write my soul feels at rest, my brain feels happy, and I am most myself. After a summer of therapy and hard internal work, I have shed the misconception that success is the only indicator of me being able to say, “I am a writer”. I am a writer because I write.

I first wanted to be a writer when I was 9 years old. Even though I had written my disjointed words in a Little House on the Prairie journal since I was 7, when I turned 9 something changed. I became serious about taking notes and learning. It was decided, I was to be a writer. I remember clutching my notebook close to my chest and walking through the fiction section of our small-town library. “Each of these books” I thought “started with a single idea from a single person.” I was enthralled. Then at 17 I decided to pursue another field of study in college. Despite my 9-year-old dream, I decided against studying writing in college. Sure, I still kept a journal, I started a blog, but I never called myself a writer. Years later, after marriage and babies, and watching husband deploy, and moving and starting a company I began writing a book. I joined a literary group and still I would never say I am a writer. It has been five years since then. Five years of drafts and more deployments and closing my company, and raising children and therapy and refining my marriage, and new jobs. And here I am, 26 years after I first walked through that library, I am finally able to say, “I am a writer.”, not because I make my living that way (it’s not), or because of the awards (there are none), but because that’s who I have always been.

-Helen

Extract

I have never been to war.

For over a decade I have tried to understand

What you experienced there.

I have read biographies and novels.

I have watched documentaries and blockbusters.

Trying to understand.

I have never thrown a grenade or

Watched someone bleed out into the dirt.

I have never pulled a trigger or

been hunted like an animal.

No, my love, you have.

For over a decade I watched you leave,

Knowing you might not return to me.

And try as I might,

I will never understand what happened to you there.

What you experienced time and time again.

I am at a loss.

But what you brought home from war,

On that, I am an expert.

For even though I have not looked death in the face,

I live with someone who had,

And I see its reflection in your eyes

Every day.

You see, I hate to see you hurting.

I willingly tried to take your burdens so

Together we could defeat this monster

That followed you home from war.

But I’m starting to realize

Maybe I’ve lost myself in your experiences.

I’ve taken on more than I should,

Hoping it would ease your load.

I need to extract myself from your pain.

For both of our sakes.

And let you stand on your own two feet.

Then maybe if I learn to stand on mine,

We can put this war,

(Both yours and mine)

Behind us at last.

-Helen

A Phone Call with a Stranger…

I throw the truck in park and wait for my phone to ring. The parking lot is starting to fill. The warm weather has brought throngs of people to the beach this holiday weekend. Young families and groups of teenagers walk from their cars down to the rocky coast, eager to soak up the sun. It is Memorial Day Weekend, and the weather is picture-perfect. Everyone is chatting and laughing. Summer is almost here, and the air is relaxed and easy. I could not feel more the opposite. I am tense and jittery, but also excited. I would not have believed you if you had told me I would be waiting for this call today. I’ve never done this before. Suddenly, I wonder if it would be better if I was outside. The fresh air might feel nice. I grab my keys, get out of the truck, and join the happy beachgoers heading down to the water, but I stop after a minute or two.

“What if you cry?” I ask.

I picture myself down at the beach, sobbing on the phone, while groups of people gawk at me, the lady with the short hair.

“I don’t want people to see me cry,” I respond and almost mechanically turn around and start walking back up the hill to the truck. The door is heavy as I pull it open and slam it shut behind me.

“This is better.” I think, settling into the deep seat “This is simpler.” I remind myself, taking a deep breath to steady the loose thoughts ricocheting around my brain. I look out at the water and then down at my dark phone. Any moment now. I take another deep breath, but instead of a call my phone pings with another text:

“The call went straight to voicemail.”

I look closer at my cell and realize I only have two bars of reception. Shit. I type out a quick reply:

“Bad reception, please try again.”

I reverse quickly, avoiding an oncoming car, and exit the now-packed parking lot. Soon the truck is climbing our neighborhood hills and once I’m at the top my phone rings:

“Hey. Are you there?” asks an upbeat man’s voice.

“Yep. Hi. You must be Aaron. Sorry for earlier, I didn’t realize the reception was so bad.” I answer, driving through the peaceful, shady roads leading out of our neighborhood.

“No problem.” comes the response “What’s going on? How can I help?”

I choke out one sentence about the upcoming holiday and start crying. For 43 minutes I let forth everything that has been building up over the past few months: the trailer for that one movie about the soldier who tries and saves his interpreter, the brick wall that erupts between my husband and me when the subject of war arises, wondering if I am allowed to feel any of this because I didn’t service. I talk, cry, and gulp down pockets of air filled with a heaviness that feels nonexistent one day and unbearable the next. For 43 minutes I talked to a stranger while he listened and offered insight:

“As a veteran myself…” he says.

“What I have noticed…” he comments.

“Have you thought about it this way…” he suggests.

For 43 minutes this afternoon, I talked to a stranger. I cried while a stranger listened to all the heaviness and pain that has crept up and taken up residency in my life. Moving increasingly closer to the surface each day. After we finished the call I sat in the truck and breathed deep full breaths. I felt tired like I had just run a few miles uphill the whole way, but I felt better.

I feel better.

“Sometimes we feel helpless, not hopeless, but it still hurts. Call us back anytime. We’ll be here.”

A stranger told me that today.

If you’re in the Military, a Veteran, or a Military spouse and need someone to talk to this Memorial Day Weekend I urge you to visit Veteran Crisis Line, there you can talk with a counselor trained in veteran affairs and process things you are feeling in a safe space. Remember the fallen this weekend, but don’t forget about your mental health. You matter. You. Matter.

-Helen

War

The concrete beneath my feet had already begun to soak up the heat. Birds were calling out their shrill morning songs. A few houses down someone started a lawnmower, eager to get the Saturday yard work started. I stared out at our front yard and took a sip of tea. You opened the door behind me and sat down. The silence around us didn’t last long as little feet followed you outside. Soon chalk was being drawn around us on the walkway and stories were being told by excited voices. It was a perfect small town Saturday morning. 

“This is a totally inappropriate question to ask right now” I broke into the sound of our kids playing around us “but, do you ever get stuck back there?”

You look at me, your forehead creasing slightly “Stuck? Back there? No. Not stuck, but...”

“Well, not stuck.” I say quickly trying to defend my question, “but do you ever just think about it all so much that you forget what you’re doing now because you’re so preoccupied with what happened?”

You don’t answer for a moment as you drink your coffee and take in the sight of our three kids drawing bright colors on the concrete.  

“Yeah. Not stuck” you say again “But, yeah, sometimes I think about it a lot and it’s hard to focus on being here.” 

I nod and look down at the chalk lines being drawn around my feet. Orange and pink.

“I got stuck yesterday.” I say not looking up from the colors. I see you nod knowingly out of the corner of my eye. “It started when I watched that movie trailer, you know the new one about the guy who tries to save his interpreter?” 

Blue and yellow. 

You nod again.

“And I just got stuck” I continue “I couldn’t think about anything else. I was trying to tie the twins’ shoes and I kept imagining you over there, and all the feelings of not knowing if you would come or not just flooded over me. All of those nights of checking the news and not hearing from you. Everyone we lost. And the girls were yelling at me to put their shoes on because I was just sitting there, just holding their shoes in my hand.” I trail off lamely. 

You nod at me again and sip more coffee.

My words hang around us for a minute. They float down and sink into the chalk pictures, our morning drinks, the fabric of our clothes.  

“I feel bad for getting stuck, when I never even went there. You know? You’re the one with all the first hand experience and if you don’t get stuck then…” I falter “Then I don’t know. It’s stupid, but I feel like I’m not allowed to get stuck. I didn’t even have to go there.” 

You look over at me and our eyes meet. You smile and shake your head slightly. 

“That’s silly, babe” you say, and your voice is gentle and understanding “You can’t compare your experiences with anyone else. All you can do is compare yourself with your past self.”

I nod and look at the kids now running circles in the dewy grass. 

“You’re allowed to have your own experiences.”  you finish simply, and there are more words in your eyes, more stories, but with a little smile I know you are done talking.  

The conversation is over. 

I nod again, looking down at my mug of tea and scoot closer to you. I rest my head on your shoulder, feeling the warmth from your body next to mine. 

The sunshine is streaming through the trees. Birds are singing their morning song. Our kids are playing in the yard in front of us. It’s a perfect Saturday morning in a small American town, and we sit there, holding our experiences from the past close, not wanting them to spill out onto this perfect spring morning.

-Helen

A not so quiet place…

The thing is I’ve been thinking about this blog a lot lately. Sometimes I’ll think about ideas for a post when I’m tying my kids’ shoes in the morning before school. Sometimes I'll think about fleshing out those ideas when I’m cooking dinner in the evening or reading bedtime stories to three sleepy kids or walking our massive dog in the morning. The idea of sitting down and writing has been following me around for weeks. I see myself at my desk down in the office, a cup of tea next to me and words pouring forth.

“I will crush this.” I think.

And then the doubt creeps in and starts talking: Why does my voice matter again? What would I say anyway? What makes me worthy to say anything on any subject?

I shake my head to clear the thoughts. “I will write tonight”, I say to myself as put Band-Aids on scrapped knees and fold clothes and call out answers to questions about what we’re having for dinner. And then the evening comes around and bedtime is later than normal, and Daddy calls to say goodnight from far away sending everyone, including me, into an emotional whirlwind. By the time everyone is tucked in for the millionth time, and the dishes are done, and the three chattering voices finally fade as my kids drift off to sleep, I am utterly exhausted. I can’t write when I’m exhausted, right? I need a clean room, and a fresh cup of tea and silence. But you see, I don’t think that’s in the cards for me right now. I’m starting to realize that I’m going to have to grab small moments of peace and pull words out of myself there and then, dirty dishes be damned.

So, here I am, about to fall asleep on this laptop, but writing, nonetheless. Because the words must go out into something and imperfect though they are, they might as well go here.

GN,

Helen

Out of the dirt. Finally.

True to form it has taken me months to gather enough courage to sit down and write this first entry. Six-months to be exact. Yikes. Has it really been that long? For the past six-months I have been telling myself to start:

“Just grab your balls and do it, Helen!” and for months I have replied:

“Nah. It’s going to suck away.”

And now you know… I struggle with fear. I have struggled with fear my whole life. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of rejection, you get the idea. I have the worst FOMO you can imagine.

I can remember sitting on the driveway as a five-year-old, crying my eyes out because I couldn’t decide if I should go with my dad do errands in town (and possibly get a treat) or stay at home where my siblings were getting ready to ride their bikes to the train tracks down the road (something we were only allowed to do if the big kids went with us). I sat and cried and cried because I did not know what to do. I remember how the dusty gravel looked between my dirty tennis shoes, and the way the light from the sunset ricocheted off the wheels on my sister’s bikes. I remember my dad squatting down beside me, trying to console me, and help weigh the pros and cons, willing me to make up my little mind already. Even after all these years, I still remember those little details, but you know what? I have no idea what I ended up choosing. Did I go to the gas station with my dad and get a candy bar? Or did I ride my bike with the big kids down to the train tracks?

I honestly don’t remember.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter though. In the end I was able to stop crying and make up my little mind. I went somewhere that summer evening, and probably had a great time, for a five-year-old. Candy or a bike ride, what’s to lose?

And I guess, in the same way, this blog doesn’t really matter either. It may become something one day as I journey to become a better writer. Or it won’t, and it will sit here collecting digital dust until I remove it one day.

But the point is that I have been sitting on my butt in the dust for a long time now, and I can’t anymore. I have to write. Even if it sucks. I have to get it out. Even. If. It. Sucks. So. Goddamn. Bad. I have to stand up, brush the dust from jeans, and get my butt off this dirty driveway where I have been wallowing (who doesn’t love a good wallow though) in my own ineptitude and failure as a writer. Plus, soon I will be 35 and I can’t, I simply won’t continue wallowing about writing into another year of my life.

There you have it. Probably the worst start to the blog, but I’m no longer sitting on the ground, paralyzed with fear. I am standing. I am covered in dirt, and my face is streaked with tears, but I am standing, damnit.

So here we go.

-Helen