Writer

So today I was supposed to write. Like maybe a new HuffPo piece. Or a new comic. I even considered writing a few letters, responding to the letters I have received in the past few months. And then I remembered I still have not read two of the letters sent to me. They sit in my bag, ignored but not forgotten. Sometimes I do this. Harbor letters, words, connections. I don't really know why I do this, but at this point, habitual rules. My computer did not cooperate earlier today, at Atlas Cafe. And I was grumpy.

One year in Manhattan. New friends aplenty; I am still surprised with the amount of friends I have managed to finagle. Old friends who are like new again. Two weddings attended, two more celebrated. Two bike accidents, one visit to the ER. Countless novels read, dozens of comics written. One short film, three scripts tossed aside. A trip to New Hampshire. Montauk. Long Beach. Rhode Island. Catskill. Hiking in Jersey. Hiking in apple country. Hiking with four crazy dogs. One day of leaf peeping. Picnics in parks and beaches and on the Westside Highway.

It was time to go to sleep, way past that time, actually, but she was awake.
So, with a sigh and a hoisting of imaginary pants, Heart went hiking north and tapped on Brain's door.
“Brain? Don't you ever get tired? It's time for bed! Don't you ever get tired of not sleeping?”
It was Brain's turn to sigh, and she did, but her sighs always sounded like muffled sneezes which never failed to make Heart chuckle. Of course, she always felt bad for chuckling at Brain's unfortunate sounding noises, but it was hard for her to control.

I can do this.
I'm a writer.
I'm a writer; I can do this.
Doubts are not welcome, but ever present, but not invited, but still there.
And I know I can do this.
I want to do this, I am this; this is me.
And you. But me. And if I'm going to do this, really do this, I need to accept,
no embrace, that I am capable, more than capable,
I am alive and full and ready.
I can do this.

Last Wednesday I went to my first audition. You heard me . . . AUDITION. Am I an aspiring actress? Nope. Have I ever done this before? Not really, unless you want to count the church auditorium before my freshman year when I auditioned with my then boyfriend. (We nailed it, by the way, and went on to wow multiple church audiences all around Orange County.) Am I currently funemployed with occasional open afternoons on my hands? You got it!

This is a reminder to you, but mostly to me, but also to you, that God answers prayers. I mean, not every single one of my prayers in life has been answered (and yes, I'm still stunned that my one painful and critical request two years ago was not fulfilled) but some of them have. Specifically, in the last two months alone, I can think of 8 prayers that were acknowledged and handled. This is a miracle when I truly sit and ponder it, and I wish that appreciation and thankfulness would stick with me 100% of the time, instead of wavering in and out while I focus on unanswered prayers.

There were four of us in matching puffy coats, waiting for the light to change. And I was the only one on a girl's bike (lovingly categorized as “vintage”), even though there were two other girls in the group. Clouds of heat puffed out of our chapped lips, and I regretted leaving my gloves at home. The girl to my right intrigued me. She had on dark green riding pants and a black velvet riding helmet perched on her short, blonde hair. Like you wouldn't be surprised to hear her say, “No, no Mummy. No time for tea.

This is a thank you letter to you. And you. And Me. And you. You make me laugh so hard my cheeks ache. You understand me. You write me letters. You are so thoughtful. You appreciate me. You listened to me when I babbled. You listen to me. You take me seriously. You don't let me take myself too seriously. You humble me, but in a way that makes me a better person. You have helped me overcome silly inhibitions. You remind me that I am pretty. You make me write. You are loyal. Your hugs are the best. You love me, even when I don't love myself. You go with me to church. You pray for me.

And there is a little man (do not call him a gnome, he is not a gnome, he is merely small) who sits on a stool next to a rock and three trees. There used to be four trees, but that man, that little man that some do not take seriously because to some stature means everything, that man felled the fourth tree in order to construct the stool he now uses. He used to sit on the rock but boy did that bruise his bum. And what this man does best is this man harrumphs. Do you know the word?

Ok, and so you were here, in my city, in my new home (although you never did end up seeing my home and yes I told you I was disappointed because I was but that doesn't mean I should have told you so loudly with that look in my eyes) and I saw you walking my streets. Did it feel large and overwhelming or large and magnetizing or was it just plain big? And on one hand it was amazing having you here, my brother with me in this new place, my brother hugging me and crushing my broken bones with the embrace I have missed. And yet.

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