It’s different every day. Today, for instance, I feel like an entire hive at work within me. Bees have partitioned my bones into their waxy cubicles. Their buzzing is the backdrop rhythm of a city in motion and my thoughts are a sweet elixir on my throat. Writing lets me do this; pour honey from …
Begonia
The peonies were a hand’s turn past perfection. Instead of the tight, round folds Holly had expected, the flowers flared outward like grandparent arms open for a hug. The petals had become papery as their veins dried out in the sun, and as they curled back, the canary pollen rods below were exposed. Even if …
An Open Letter to the Impostor in Me
I’m staring at a blank page and it’s staring back. The black cursor is blinking. Binary signals switching on and off like the waving of a traffic cop. Proceed. Move Forward. Do something. But the cursor doesn’t move and the blank page is open, oppressive in its potential. I should be writing. I should be …
The Unlikely Relationship Between Perfectionism and Procrastination
If I ignore a work in progress too long, I start to catch myself avoiding it completely. Perhaps the best strategy I've used to fight this is self-imposing deadlines. Of course, as the deadline looms, I conveniently push off each short story until the week of. I know procrastinating is self sabotage. I know my …
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