The Fifth W.


It seems that somebody felt left out of the “W” party (see Welcome to Whoever I am). Perhaps, I can’t answer the question of why we’re all here, but I can tell you why I am here. In this place, writing these words to you now. There’s more than one why of course. There usually is, at least for me. Most often, two conflicting answers exist; beating against each other like flies caught in a window frame. Everything at once. A massive cloud of buzzing contradictions. That’s me.


There’s only so much time in a day, year, or life after all; it’s important to be clear on why I should choose to spend it this way. I started this blog to share my own stories, connect with other people and possibly inspire some of those new friends to share theirs. Everybody has a story inside them, fiction or non, that needs to come out. With so many ways to express ourselves in this digital age, pick whichever one works for you and place your mark on this world.

I’ve been noticing that most everybody, especially my fellow story-spinning brethren and creative folk, has a blog now and that’s just how it is. I was hesitant to dip my toes into these crowded waters (classic introvert over here, I don’t really do crowds) but I realized that it was best to just be brave and dive in head first. It’s a new process for me, but so much of my life is about fresh starts right now, so why not make this one of them?


My current goal is establish my own clear, precise and unique voice. That I have one is of no doubt to me and pretty much never has been. However like all things in my life – it is many things at once. Dozens of voices; sometimes raised in a shout, others screaming incoherently. For one who doesn’t do well in massive groups of people, sometimes it’s too crowded in my own damn skull. So, here, with this blog, I shall carve away. Until I winnow down to the marrow. The bare bones of my voice. 

“You Be You” (created February 28, 2016) This digital piece contains many (but not all!) of the Blythe dolls that I envy. These dolls are original one of a kind creations customized by their owners. I am not one of them. I just made this picture.

I have silenced myself. Often. Believe me, we’re all better off that way. I talk to myself constantly (more on that in a future post). Sometimes quietly with barely a whisper, but most often, straight out loud; where everyone can hear me, and judge me, and ruminate on just how looney tunes I may actually be. It has caused me no end of problems over the years and most certainly exacerbated the disconnect in my former workplace. 

It was a disassociation that spread through everything like a creeping, invasive weed. I was working on a story at the time that jammed to a halt the more severe my emotional distress became, which I found sorta ironic because it’s a piece that focused on exactly that kind of malaise. I stopped writing. I am eager to start again.

The end of the first paragraph of Chapter One of The Switch, my short story project that withered away as I did. This story is currently in rough draft state. I have picked up the narrative thread with only three chapters to go until the end.


For me, it was never really a conscious decision to start writing. It started with a love for words. Everything about them. It was art that called to me first, but as soon as I figured out the joy of mixing the two, I was hooked. There was a period in early elementary school where I was writing and illustrating stories and blowing the socks off my older mentoring peers with the detailed connections between my text and images. I remember one I wrote about our class visit to the local zoo that garnered me much praise and accolades. Maybe it still exists in one of the many boxes of that stuff my Mum has so graciously hoarded for me; I will have to dig and see. It’s the first work I remember being proud of.

I vacillate between writer and artist frequently, more so currently. Back then, I lost myself in art and drawing in what would now be defined as my tween years. When I rediscovered the joys of the written word at age thirteen, they started to pour out in a wave that has continued in one form or another since. Sometimes, it’s the bare ripple after a stone vanishes into my creative pond. Other times, rogue tsunamis appear, obliterating all that came before.


I write because I can’t not. I create for the same reason. I have to be me. There currently are no other options.

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