When I was 14 years old, I told my dad I wanted to be a writer. I could feel it in my bones. I knew writing was what gave my life its most profound meaning. I could taste it. “I think I want to be a writer,” my young, tender
I have returned. I know, I was AWOL all year. Here are the highlights: 1-I had to face a devastating and painful grief. 2-I had to increase my weekly therapy sessions from 1-2 (or sometimes 3) 3-I had the best summer of my life. 4-I had the worst year of
Amber, You Matter! I reached inside my heart today and found you there. I did not realize you had crept into that space when I was busy. We were both busy laughing, sharing, crying, comforting… A little like family. A lot like friendship. No one but you can be the
“Love me!” It seems like two very innocent, simple words. It’s the plea of everyone who has every posted a vague status on Facebook, or ever called the suicide hotline, or ever made some foolish, desperate act to get the attention of the people they care about. “Love me” seems
“A wave pursues the thoughtful dreamer, Inspiration splashing upon my mind, makes no effort to withhold her praises, one comment at a time. But I withhold mine.” I’m never actually certain who my reader is: I confess it to all my teachers who for hundreds of hours drilled into my brain the importance of focusing on
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