I’m back in this weird place of staring down this crazy town idea of trying to publish. I’m back to the cliff. I’m that girl sitting at the edge again, hanging her feet over wondering if she’s got it in her. I’m exhales and self-doubt.
I’m a creature of habit. I get stuck in ruts and writing is this fluid thing in my life that fits when it can and yet it’s the most me I ever am. I want to always write. I want to write hard. I’ve got a child with autism, which has trained me to structure and build my life just so, and the idea of leaping and being something else too? Something more? Something that’s just mine?
I’ve got to try. The water looks good. Cold or warm, it just looks good.
It’s a shot in the dark. The mother in me is hushing and feeding something. The twenty-seven year-old is bouncing her leg, trying to gauge the drop. She’s thinking and thinking. The teenager is sitting by her parent’s printer, watching page after page of her own words, hoping they don’t come up and see she’s using up all the ink. Again. The college girl forgot about this. The little girl is somewhere in the clouds, so sure of it.
Now I’ve just got to get them all to throw themselves over already.