I just wrote the shittiest first draft of the story (much of) my life is built around. How can something so near be so hard to pin down in words? But when the cursor blinked at me, a little mockingly, if I’m honest, I just kept pressing on, focusing on the tippity-tap of the keyboard instead of the insipid writing mucking up an otherwise perfectly good blank Google doc. I kept writing because what is underneath this story, its lifeblood, is worth getting to. Beauty, substance; the foundation of family and love. At least in this house. In our house. Love can be harder to write than pain–but this story, like most, has ample amounts of both. If I can just corral it into words, capturing the heart of it, but still allowing it the freedom to be precisely what it is.
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