Backwards

I was looking back through posts the other day and was amazed I’ve kept this blog going for a decade. It all started with a story about me and my embarrassing dance moves at a Christmas party. I did the sprinkler dance ok? Get over it.

I can see how far my writing has come. Like working a muscle, I’ve built it up. It’s flows easier now. But have I come along that far? Have I worked on my soul in the process of the writing? I haven’t really made much progress in the last decade on being nicer or on drinking less.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve documented it all, I’ve been honest, pretty honest, about who I am.

There are cringeworthy blogs that I read now where I was so euphoric about the process of fertility treatments and IVF. So fucking hopeful. I feel like a fool in retrospect, and the barren and cynical bitch I’ve become thinks, you are a fucking idiot.

But at least I tried. Right? It's the same thing with this book, this writing journey and my performances. It’s not like I think I’m that talented. I do a reading and my knees chatter together like fake joke teeth, but I have something to say. I have a voice. And while my voice may not be the prettiest, or the smartest, or the most elevated, it’s mine.

Watching the show Fleabag recently, I thought, I love this. This girl is a real girl, a flawed girl and I will take reality over fake ass shit any day.