We’re wrapping up Olive’s second week of Grade 1, and so far, it’s been a bit nuts. I mean, exciting and milestone-y and deeply gratifying, but nuts nonetheless.
The whole thing began earlier than I’d intended – at 5 AM last Tuesday morning, her first day of school.
Tonight I’m lying here beside sleeping Olive, who wheedled her way into my bed, and I’m thinking about the past three years.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how far I’ve come – how far WE’VE come.
We just came back from our annual family summer vacation (AKA The Rumpus) and while there’s a lot that could be said, I will begin by presenting to you the portraits Olive did of everyone in attendance.
As you’ll soon see, a picture truly is worth a thousand words (or in this case, a dollar, which is what Olive charged each of us. A bargain if you ask me.)
I miss her the most at night.
She’s been gone almost five weeks and although it’s been easy to fill the days with friends and exercise and work and even a little bit of travel mixed in for good measure, the nights aren’t such a simple story.
The Creative Process, by KarinaPrints on Etsy
Being a writer is a strange thing, full of contradictions.
One one hand, you think you have something worthwhile to say. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be writing. There’s a sense, deep inside of you, that you can tell stories in a way others can’t. You can sift and hum and weigh, and finally find it -that perfect word or sentence or phrase to express a previously inexpressible feeling. The worn-down feeling of a relationship on its last wobbling legs, the suffocating experience of being a mother to small children, the warm crush of close family, the hot rush of a sexual encounter.
On the other hand, your words are shit and your sentences are garbage and your sentiments are trite, overwrought, and pedestrian. You’re just repeating what other (better) writers have been saying (more skillfully) for decades.