"Why Did I Tell Her the Truth?

I want to delete this

“I love your writing and your stories and your insight.” - A much needed and appreciated monthly subscriber.

“THANK YOU to those helping this independent memoirist continue to work by upgrading to paid (which also helps my goal of gifting this every-weekday-writing-world to anyone who asks for a reading scholarship, no questions asked!)

I think of supportive readers (those who subscribe) as friends helping support chapters in an ongoing book, and those who cannot [but read and share for free] as equally important Word Nerds alongside…

But if YOU hate getting tons of emails and don’t like being spammed (same-same), you can always do what a supportive reader did:

“I still have my yearly subscription, but unsubscribed from the emails. I just need to be able to do it on my own time“.

We both wish this space would give readers the option (“Do you want to get newsletters or do you want to access it on the app?”), but until it does: We make our own!

My goal will always be to work VERY hard for your monthly support and never take it for granted, so I write every weekday.

Here’s to another week together?”

I want to delete this.

I know I do before I've even written it. And yet… I write.

Most of the time, I write what I'm feeling so I can finally stop feeling it.

"I feel like everything I write is so depressing these days," I say out loud to no one in particular. Probably my cat. (Just to drive the depressing point home a little more.)

"People are going to think this is all I am."

I have professional dance friends who tread here; people I want to impress. Directors and choreographers and artists of my past. (Friends I used to make fun of for calling themselves "artists" or "manifesting things" until I started doing the same.) People change. I've changed. Am I just a digital Dickinsonian of dread? Not the Tiny Tim variety, but the agorapho-prose of women past?

This doesn't always feel a happy place because this is the place where I say what I must in order to muster.

Will my students who skim a word or two, or bosses gone for broke, now consider someone else less broke... broken... breaking?

Life is about faking, you see. That's how we get hired. Our resumes stretch like taffy until no one knows who we really are or were. It's who we know… not how much we know it. And I don't know if I know enough to know better.