It’s the toughest job on the planet, or so I’ve been told. I’ve never actually held the position myself.

We are each assigned one at birth, and all I can say is mine had to be strong to raise me.

Not that I was a particularly bad kid per se, just a tad…unhinged.

I thought everyone was my friend, even the seedy stranger walking down the street (fresh from burying a body, no doubt).

Whatever was on my mind, the world was privy to regardless of the consequences. Too cunning to stay in trouble but not cunning enough to stay out of it.

Growing up, she was my best friend and my worst enemy. Iron sharpens iron and now our bond is unbreakable.

The amount of sacrifices she made is countless and my gratitude is boundless.

I am not sure what I did to deserve to be raised by this warrior queen, but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Have you ever had those moments of pure bookdrenaline? You know…the times where you aren‘t simply a “writer” but rather the literary vessel forged from the fire of creativity and as such a marvel. It is your soul purpose to deliver the stories swelling inside you to the world and there is nothing and no one who can stop you. Then…nothing….

Your cerebral planes have become a ghost town of thoughts. All the characters talking over each other, desperate to be heard hours before, have suddenly vanished.

Whenever this happens I acknowledge that I am simply not ready to hear and accept the next part of their story. I feel like I am, what author doesn’t? However, it is their story after-all.

Not every writer crafts like this, but I have always felt as though these stories are real and have been lost in the shuffle of the progression of the world. Only those with a heart and mind sensitive enough to listen can put them to paper.

I step away. I may even go through previous scenes in the story and find clues there. But more often than not, my characters will voice their story when I‘m in the snack aisle at the store, nowhere near my computer. *insert face palm emoji here.*

As they say, “inspiration can strike anywhere,” but what “they” didn’t say was the inconvenience that ”anywhere” may entail.

My process depends on the story I am working on, however one thing I recommend for all writers is don‘t let the outside noise filled with doubt and intimidation influence the voices of your story.

Never lose the awe and wonder this craft provides, not everyone can and not everyone wants to write. You got this!

Being your authentic self is a battle no one warned you about. Truly. The path we traverse is riddled with more than discovering your favorite color, music or food.

Unfortunately, the rainbow moments are often preceded by the tempest ones.

Hospital visits due to the allergic reaction you had to the beloved cat you always wanted, heartbreaks caused by crossed boundaries you didn’t know you had until the damage was done, the therapist appointments you arranged because, well…life can be a bitch….

Fast forward to today. Look at you! You are still standing, now armed with Benadryl, the necessary walls erected around your heart, and your therapist’s number and favorite Bible verse/boss-girl quote in your phone and meds on your RX refill list, all while wearing your favorite color shirt, blasting your fave song as you devour your ultimate comfort meal.

After all these victories, why would you be anyone but yourself. For better or worse, you earned it.

Two souls,

one heartbeat.

Past mistakes keeps

them physically apart.

Desire and hope keeps

them virtually together.

The longing to touch,

overwhelms,

their obvious connection

comforts.

For others,

this breed of despair would

destroy.

For them,

it strengthens.

My thoughts run rampant like an overheated engine. The steady stream of water cleanses the dirt from my skin and my soul. I step out further, feeling anew, my troubles swirling down the sewage drain.

I've always thought a heavy downpour was Earth's attempt to rid itself of evil.

However, the rain could never manage to wash away the purple, there wasn't time. It would soon be replaced by a shade deeper than the first.

I've always despised purple, so today, I exchanged it for my favorite, red.

The crimson that stains my hands, is becoming, but its origin mars its beauty.

Pity, that.

I stand in the delicious rain, drenching my body, purifying my spirit, my sin slowly dripping off my fingers.

I smile at the piercing sound of the wailing siren, a warning of my impending imprisonment.

I just bought myself my freedom. All else is a small price I'd pay again and again. Gladly.

Art,

words,

dance,

song.

Talents run aplenty,

and yet,

the true talent

lies

in one's tenacity.

A valley dotted with

micro-hills rests,

unaware

of the impending

magic.

Then,

the dormant bumps

spark to life as

a substance of

crushed crystals,

derived

from an Earth-toned rainbow,

dissolves

lightning-like flavor into

each crevice.

Blended in,

sprinkled on,

or consumed directly,

everyday blandness

transforms

into indescribable

vibrancy.