Writing

Dear God, And so I live in a time and place where my letters to God are typed on my iPhone inside an arctic subway car. But surely You are used to this-followers and children squeezing You in when they can, doling out snippets of time in between. In between anything and everything that supersedes a relationship with You. And I am happy. And I am worried. But I am happy. And that girl is something else, God. Did you create us for each other? Or is she one of many created with me in mind, and vice versa?

Justin is a man, but almost a boy, or at least he looks more like a boy when you get up closer. His beard is deceiving, his big worn hands are deceiving, his homeless status is somewhat deceiving. On my first go around, I saw a dark head tilted down into a jutting collarbone, dwarfed by a large cardboard sign that said, "Anything helps" (anything helps, need work, I am trying to pull my life together, please) I made it three stores down before I turned back. When I addressed him with my perky and sunny "Hi" he immediately looked up.

The following is yet another Craigslist ad that appears to be for reals, and is basically my worst nightmare:
“ Hello girls we are an upscale foot fetish company specializing in foot fetish
parties where you get paid to party, have fun at a cool stylish party, and make
$400 a night on average while having your feet massaged and kissed! This job is
100% legal and you do NOT take your clothes off this is only about your feet, and
we immediately fire anyone that breaks any rules or laws. This party is held

Last weekend I went to my first comic convention. Let me clarify, for of course I have been to comic conventions before, but this was the first time I had my own booth. Let me clarify, again, for even though I had a booth that showcased my comic and the adorable JLLT underwear we had made, it was not, in fact, “my own” booth because I shared it with five other comic creators.

A couple of weeks ago I went in for an IME. For those of you that don't know (which is probably most of you, considering you would never have heard of such a thing unless you have been involved in an accident or a no fault insurance claim) IME stands for Independent Medical Examination. I was involved in a bicycle meets van door meets Lacy on the ground with a jacked up neck and knee in December, and have been receiving both chiropractic care and acupuncture ever since.

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.

Pages