Tomorrow is my birthday. And I shall be resigned to referring to myself as "almost 40" and not "in my thirties."
I'm not sure how I feel about this.
No matter. The thoughts will sort themselves out I'm sure of it.
In the mean time, here is something that I wrote for a very special group of women. I'd be honored if you'd read along.
Chaos is not my muse. I know, I know. It’s supposed to be. At least that’s what they tell me.
I have three passionate and creative little ones – 6, 4, and 2. We live in a city, one of the big ones. I’m a mother and a writer. Life is loud. All the successful ones yell, “Chaos is my muse.”
Screw ‘em. Not for me.
Writing, for me, is intimate. It’s sensual. I woo my words out, I coax them from the corners where they lie in wait to come out to the light. There’s just no other way.
While I’ve always loved writing and reading, it was my junior year’s AP American Literature that introduced me to the Romantics and the Transcendentalists. I found my home in the Chambered Nautilus, in Walden Woods, and on the shores of New England. Later it was the green rolling hills of the English countryside and the cold, snow filled streets of Russia that whispered to me in words only I seemed to understand. So when others tell me that I can find my muse even on the edges of life, I sit at my desk like Bartleby the Scrivener and say determinedly, “I would prefer not to.”
You can read the rest here, at the Story Sessions. If you are a (female) writer in need of community, I highly recommend these ladies. Seriously. They are the real deal.