Starting Over

I’ve never been good at introductions. In college I would start my stories from the middle, letting them slowly bloom out in scraps of paper covering an entire table at the library, coming together piece by piece, until I had everything but the beginning. It feels like this is where I decide who I will be, and that’s not something I know the answer to just yet. For now, I am a person who needs to write. What I’ll write, I’m not quite sure yet. Writing has always been my but-really career, but lately I’ve been a bit stuck.

Stuck on who I am, who I’m supposed to be, whether my writing is too dark or too light or too much like me—whether someone I know will be able to pick up one of my stories and see all the dark bits of me I’d prefer to keep hidden. I have more dark bits than I’d like to admit.

For now I guess I should start with who I am, or at least the parts that I know. I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman; I’m a lover of books and poetry and music and animals; I hate the cold but I live somewhere freezing; I’m an abuse survivor and I’m not quite sure what that means yet; I drink too much coffee and too much tea and not enough water; and on the days that I feel like I can’t breathe I go out into the woods and I hike until the ground reminds me that it’s still there, still solid beneath my feet.

So, dear reader, if you’re out there, if you, too, exist somewhere in the world, then hello. It’s nice to meet you. At least for now, I don’t think I’ll tell you my name, but if you stick around I’ll tell you who I am, who I wish to be, how I see the world, and maybe many more things that I don’t even know yet. And really, in the light of all that, what’s in a name?