I am here

(AUSTIN, Texas) — I can’t run away from that part of me that needs to create. Why do I want to?

I don’t know. This is what I’m contemplating as I sit alone in my trailer, my door open, the day outside getting warmer and sunnier by the minute. I shouldn’t even be here right now, hanging out, but there was a water leak at my restaurant, and instead of staying around with the crew and trying to fit in, I came home. Now, the water is fixed, and I’m out a day’s wages, and I’m wondering why it takes an act of God for me to allow myself some time to write. It has been months, and I’m so sorry for the delay. Part of me, I think, wanted to jump whole-heartedly into the restaurant world with no distractions. Part of me was still just embarrassed that I had to stop traveling so abruptly. Anyway, it feels like it should be easier than this, this writing thing. It feels like I should have more drive and discipline and ability to escape into words whenever I need. But maybe that’s what makes my writing matter so much to me in the first place — it’s so damn hard for me to do it.

I could explain, but even I don’t understand it. The threat of writing or not sits on my chest constantly, making me feel like an asshole or a rock star depending upon my recent level of production. I am a writer. I am, and it’s pretty much all I want to be. Perhaps that’s why it feels so heavy whenever I press my fingers into these keys.

Anyway, thank you for waiting this out and reading this. It means the world to me. I will write at least one more posting today, hopefully even put up some pictures. But I’ll leave this little flag out first. This is a promise of more to come.

God, even writing that little bit felt like medicine. I really am out of practice. Talk to you folks again in a few hours.

— Stina.