Thank you Janine for putting into words what a lot of us are feeling.
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…
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