I wrote one personal essay that was published in a small online publication for emerging writers. This was my first. I’m moderately happy about it. I guess. Let’s pretend I didn’t forget how to walk and royally fuck up my knee on the third flight of stairs leading to my apartment after I read the acceptance email. Let’s pretend I didn’t dance in my living room in my sports bra and granny panties when I read it a second time.
After months and months of shooting in the dark as a writer without a name, getting someone to notice you at all is kind of hard. Maybe you know exactly what I mean. But someone did, and I’m very grateful for it. If you’re so interested in reading my piece (I swear I will only do this self-promotion once) you can find it here: http://birdsthumb.org/july-2015/2015/7/1/whoopie-pie
Anyway this piece really worked for me. I was proud of it enough to send it off somewhere. It’s my baby, but it’s also the bane of my existence at this point in time.
I’m looking to tackle writing from this kind of lens again, but I’m kind of left scratching my butt right now. How did I do that? I keep asking myself. Do it again. Yeah, just like that, I say. Like it’s algebra. And when I try to write in the same sort of fashion, it falls a part in my pan like a poorly made omelet. Too much milk? I wonder. I should have probably sprayed the pan first, huh? The truth is it was one of those unicorn pieces a writer has that happens on paper without very much constipated thought. It just kind of happened, and I ran with it.
I recently saw this photo collage on Facebook or something of a mother flipping off her newborn child. She made it clear she absolutely loves her new baby, but that she doesn’t appreciate when her baby doesn’t let her sleep more than one hour every night. So she flips her sleeping baby the bird. And the baby is none the wiser. My experience with my piece is kind of like that. I love my baby, but my baby is kind of tormenting me.