for the Creatives

How I became a bookworm, an author, and generally obsessed with creative fashion

The start of struggling to read…

Last year I wrote about how my love of reading almost died as a kid. There was a time you probably would have thought I’d never become an avid bookworm. I couldn’t make the jump from short kid books to chapter books. Until I did.

The start of ignoring any sense of fashion…

Similarly, there was a time you wouldn’t have pegged me as an artistic fashion enthusiast. I would have told you I didn’t care about what I wore or how I looked. A clashing and frumpy and bland wardrobe. But let’s not relive those days. Moving onto later, now, when I actually have my own unique outlandish style.

The start of pushing down my writing interests…

Author of quirky, imaginative fiction. You may not have guessed that either. Sure, I wrote on the side all through childhood. Loved it. But for a good while I was adamant that I wouldn’t be an author, didn’t want to be. Instead, I wanted to study fiction, get my English Lit degree, not an English Writing degree. Until one day.


Looking back, my life started out in all these areas as things I outwardly said I didn’t want, didn’t care about, wasn’t interested in. While inwardly, I think a lot of it was actually doubt that I could do it up to my own or anyone else’s standards. So I gave up.

The turnaround…

The common strand in these stories is other people supporting me. My mom finding small books I’d be interested in. Friends to shop with that didn’t mind my outlandish creative fashion interests. Writers who saw the value of my stories and wanted more.

I learned that I didn’t have to live up to these hypothetical “other people’s standards” I was imagining. I hadn’t known there was another option. That I could carve out my own, and that I would find there were others in my corner who value the same stories, the same style, that I treasure.

And there wasn’t a timeline on it. Just an opportunity. I realized, if I really wanted it, I could do it. I could put the work in to create what I hoped for.

And now…

  • I like big books. I cannot lie 😛
  • I’m a published author of introspective psychological stories, studying my craft and coaching others wherever they’re at in the process.
  • I wear artistic fashion that brightens my day and those around me. It’s not what everyone else wears, but it’s unique and creative and interesting, and it’s me.
Mental Health

The Sanctity of Carpet Stains

My tears have stained the carpet.

I first noticed them right after, as I stepped on the dampness while on my way to a kleenex.

Now I step gingerly around them as I skirt through the hall, I scoop the popcorn kernels that shoot from the stove to be seasoned by the salty carpet, I kneel to that location and collect my tears there instead of a bottle. I can’t trample them; it’s too vulgar, it dishonors the sanctity of that moment, of what happened.

No one else can see the tears, but they haunt my hall in glaring reminder of the day I lost myself. Or found myself and lost my god. I’m still unsure.

It’s funny how when someone questions their entire belief system, the safest place to go with the questions isn’t the church or the christians or the religious. It’s the skeptics, the open-minded, the sinners. They can take the uncertainty and confusion, the very things that scare the church into answers, so many answers; of ignoring the big bad emotions, and acting from faith and trust, or being a false convert or backslidden or at best spiritually immature.

And I’m still bleeding where you cut me, but I’ve already forgiven you.

Did everyone see this coming?

The “I told you so”s scream so loud, and I just want to scream over them, “No, this is me, I’ve always been here, why couldn’t you see, please see…”

Why does authenticity sometimes mean being wrong? How does character sometimes mean lying?

I wonder how many times God will listen to the prayer “Don’t give up on me!” before He thinks this is ridiculous and that prayer can’t be my continuous failsafe for a life of doubt.

I like to think, to hope, that God draws closer in these moments than the moments of blind faith. I’m sure that’s the politically correct answer, but it’s all I can hold on to right now. That somehow those tears absorbed into the carpet can still be scooped into His bottle to one day have Him pull them out and reminisce about all the doubts and fears and how He was there through it all, orchestrating everything surrounding my fumbling faith.

And I’ve stopped bleeding, but I just can’t forgive you.

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