Sunflowers for Moira

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
― William Butler Yeats, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

I remember one childhood summer, my cousin and I were rolling around in the living room and trying to squeeze ourselves into the crack between the wall and the couch because it was cooler there than anywhere else in the room, and I was telling her a story.

It was an epic tale about an angel who falls to the earth and must earn her wings back, but somehow manages to save the world along the way.

Later, while we were making mudpies in the backyard, I told her about how I defeated my evil twin in utero, which was why I ended up an only child. (She’s a wonderful and very patient listener, my cousin.)

I wrote my first teen romance in high school, using up an entire legal pad. All I can say about it is that it was terrible, just terrible.

Then I wrote another. And another. Then I got a computer, and abandoned legal pads altogether. I took writing courses in college. I progressed all the way to an MA in Creative Writing, but didn’t make it till the end.

I found work writing for my university’s various publications. I got married and had a family. Then eleven years after I got married, I separated from my husband and became a single mother to my daughter, who is now seventeen.

I kept writing. Looking back, I realize that I was never not writing. I’ve started so many stories and left them unfinished. I’ve had months- and even years-long spells of writer’s block where I felt as if my brain was constipated. But I am never not writing a story.

Last year, about two months since the start of the global lockdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I had an epiphany. Nothing about the purpose of my life or the meaning of the universe, but I did realize one very crucial aspect about my writing: Why I stopped so often, only to restart again in fits and bursts. Why when I am writing I binge-write, to the point where I forget about everything, even the need for sleep and basic hygiene and the need to keep my child fed, to the point where I’m actually scared of writing and losing myself again. With that mystery on the very of being solved, I’m going to take another crack at this writing thing, because if I don’t… well, I can’t, is why. 

I still dream of publishing my own book someday, but I’ve realized it doesn’t matter. Having thousands of readers doesn’t matter, although I confess I fantasize about it a lot. Because no matter what, I will still write. And I will share my stories with anyone in need of a little diversion, a little humor, a little thrill of romance, a little inspiration. 

Because this is what I can do. I can write my stories. And I can offer these as my humble gift to the world.

This is a blog full of these stories. Some complete, some not. Some better than the others.

So thank you for your time, and I hope you can stay. Maybe grab a cup of coffee, and relax a bit. If at any point these stories make you smile, that’s reward enough for me.