an informal preface:
I am a huge fan of clean starts and finishes; exciting new things and satisfying conclusions. Whatever it is, I want to have digested it already. Gloriously, I find myself increasingly and paradoxically present – in the middle of whole entire eras of my life and processing the season I just lived through.
I used to think I couldn’t be soft and feminine without a relationship with a classically masculine slash muscular man to buffer me from the world. I also thought I couldn’t tell some of these stories until I was on the other side of things that still haven’t happened yet. Neither of those former beliefs are true. I can be as soft and as feminine as I feel inclined to be and I can write thus far whatever I damn well please.
So, welcome to my California memoir, The Choreography of Birds! I had planned to save all this goodness for a paper-bound best selling book; for a time when I could promise myself no regrets on the words I choose to write. But the perfectionist in me died another life on the plane ride back East from California, so here we are. Tonight it begins. It will probably be messy and a perhaps a hot mess, but sometimes you just have to start writing. I’m choosing to publish in real time as the stories come rather than romanticize about some finished work that magically appears without my diligence. I have plenty more incubating projects left for Later On and tucked in safe places for gestation.
To the men who shared seasons of their lives with me, and helped me recognize who I am and what I have to offer the world.
To my siblings and women friends for not judging me as I laid lamenting on the unforgiving floors of our apartments; for listening to my long winded musings over Fidi, East Bay, and Outer Sunset coffee; for reading long letters and late night text messages three thousand miles away.
To the readers of my blog who encourage me to keep speaking what comes to my finger tips.
Thank you. All y’all da realist.
. . . & &