By Janine Canty

I could give a five hour talk on how I’m not a Real Writer.

When I was 18 and headed to college for journalism I believed the Real Writers all lived in New York and had their shit together. They smoked long cigarettes, and had voices like gravel mixed with honey.

I did not make it to college. Because I didn’t have my shit together. I got knocked up to a Meatloaf song instead.

I almost forgot the writing dream in the ensuing years.

Newborn babies that kept coming. Two AM feedings. Colic. Stretch marks. Mastitis and ice in my bra.

Then I took the writing dream and I hid it deep. Because the boy I married was made out of mean. He wanted to own every part of me. And the things he couldn’t own, he destroyed. So I buried my writing dream.

Then I got…