Because a Book is a Big Lift

I’ve been told that I should write a book. My answer is always, “Oh, I have something in the works!” The truth is, I have a million little notes, a few random starts to stories, social media posts, and odd word documents with various attempts at processing my life and sense of self. I even have a pretty substantial private blog documenting the first few years of my eldest kiddos’ lives. But to say that there is a book in the works is like saying all of the various bits of fabric and thread in my art studio are a quilt in the works. Technically it could be true, but it’s a pretty big fucking lift that my ADHD brain has no idea how to fathom starting, let alone finishing.

So, I’ve taken the bones of my old domain that was littered with the embarrassing fragments of my attempt at being a, “Boss Babe,” *insert vomit noises here* and I’m attempting to retool it into something more authentic. I go into this without any preconceived notion of viewership. Honestly, if I thought this would actually be read I would be full of too much self doubt to even type these words.

The fact of the matter is, I need to write. I need to write to process my life, my emotions, to tame the feral cats chasing laser pointers in my brain. I need to write because my rejection sensitivity claws at my brain and I worry I text my friends too much despite their reassurances. I need to write because I know I have a way with words and maybe, after all of this over and done with, there will be some sort of record for my kiddos to read that illustrates that despite all of my shortcomings and character flaws, mommy really fucking tried. Or at least they’ll have something to show their therapists as indisputable evidence that they have every right to be fucked up.

Either way, in summation, a book is a big lift, blog is a self indulgent public diary, and I’m just a weird neurodivergent human with a lot of shit to process and access to the internet. May God have mercy on all who dares to read whatever musings spring forth because the mental feral cats have access to a keyboard now.

And yeah, I’m a grammar geek, but my comma usage, general punctuation, and run on sentences are not subject to rules, but rather what, “feels,” appropriate and I reserve the right to be totally wrong or evolve or whatever the fuck else I feel like because I’m talking to a pancake with bacon for a mouth.

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