I’ve been a writer from the minute I could hold a pencil. From childhood I wrote poems, long, nonsensical plays and stories, speeches, quotes, whatever I could. Into little raggedy notebooks they would go, notebooks that I stuffed into the drawer of my nightstand and read over and over, picking them apart, revising them, decided that they and later that I was unworthy. Enough years of this and I set myself on finding a new and easier career path.
I faked it for years, following this quest all the way to a master’s program in Chicago. I was exceedingly unhappy and stressed, beyond the normal amount of grad school stressed, and was forced to take a long (18 month long) and hard look at my life, my talents, and my desires. When I was honest with myself, what I had been studying since college was extremely departed from who I am. I was so used to putting myself to the side for academic acclaim that my unhappiness, while deep, was beginning to feel normal. That scared me. That REALLY scared me, more than instability. So I left; I left school. After almost three years, I left.
It was the most terrifying and liberating thing I’ve ever done. And also the best decision I’ve ever made.
Since then I have been up to my old tricks; writing furiously, re-writing furiously, thinking I’m the greatest creative genius this side of the Mason-Dixie, only to re-read my work and literately have to fight the urge to print it out and burn it.
For the ceremony of it, of course. Also I am dramatic. Just like old times.
But in a word, this website is my attempt to make up for lost time, so to speak. It’s my attempt to let readers peek into that drawer, next to my bed, at the ramblings of a closet creative.
Welcome to my nightstand.