Panic Attacks

Now that I’ve sent my manuscript to my lovely editor, I’ve had more time to myself. While I originally thought I’d spend that extra time working on my new memoir, getting ahead with grading, and getting some much needed rest, I’m sad to say most of the first month was spent agonizing over what happens next. What it my editor hates all my changes and realizes the press made a mistake in offering me a contract? What if the book comes out and people hate it? What if it comes out and I hate it? Worst, what if it does well and gifts I imagined would come with publishing a good book reveal themselves to be childish, unrealistic fantasies? What then? I spent a good part of the last month, beating m

Second Chances

If only I could go back and fix all things I’ve done wrong in life. . . If I could see those signs sooner, avert those sometimes awkward, sometimes painful, and oftentimes life-altering occurrences before they embedded themselves in my psychological DNA, life would be. You fill in the blank. I’ve often heard this phrase and repeated it myself. If only there was the going back, the reliving in order to right life’s wrongs, life would be . . . different/better/lived. But there is no going back, no reliving, just the continued journey, slower than it was before, because you are older, wiser, and better able, hopefully, to identify crevices that don’t just inconvenience, but open to a new dark,

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