I could begin here, where the drawer squeaks when I open it to grab my headphones so I can watch the video I made in time for her birthday last fall. I could begin here, where I have the freedom to put the perfect Taylor Swift song as the video’s soundtrack, because I know it will be for our eyes only. 

I could begin here, where Winter refuses to let go and the sweater I’m wearing is too warm to be worn inside, but I wear it anyway, because it reminds me of our days driving on roads where the fuchsia hedges, dripping in purple and pink flowers, towered over us for miles and miles, while we continued to settle into our place on the other side of the road, snacks and maps in tow. 

I’ve almost finished my coffee and once again, I find myself pushing back against the thoughts that tell me that this is impossible. The thoughts that say, ‘sure, you’ve done this before, but can you really do this again? And again? And again? Is this really what you want? Are you sure you’re up for this, especially now that things are so different?’ 

I’m going to keep sitting here as nervous sweat drips down the inside of my arm and my angry thoughts rage on and on. The window is open and it’s snowing outside and I’m still sitting here, and now I can feel the anger settle somewhere deep inside my chest. Somewhere that would take a lot of excavating to extract, and I don’t want to do that to myself. Not again. And so, I open the window wider and the snow is now coming down sideways and I’m taking off my sweater so I can sit at my desk in my sports bra while I pretend to not be trying so hard and sweating so much and feeling so frustrated with everything at 7:00am.

ON BEING NEW AT SOMETHING

I’ve decided to think of this (writing tiny fiction) as an experiment, and one that does not hold on too tightly to a specific outcome. So, I’ll start by using only the tools that I have available to me (my computer, what I know to be true, and all that is not true, or rather, my imagination).

If you are new to writing fiction, chances are it will be terrifying and messy and uncomfortable (to begin with), but you will be starting somewhere, and with all of your brilliant stories that haven’t been told yet, bringing yourself that much closer to where you’d like to go. And if nothing else, you’ll become very clear on what doesn’t work for you, and eventually (slowly slowly) discover what does. 

There are five robins in one tree, all stepping side to side, ruffling their feathers against the freezing air, waiting patiently for the first rays of sun.

I have decided that I’ll open the window just a crack, that way I can smell the earth while I sit at my desk, crossing and uncrossing my legs, and hovering my fingers just above the keyboard, waiting.

Let’s take this conversation down a long and winding path, barely wide enough for the two of us.

You know, it’s the one that leads to nowhere and everywhere. Past the sheep in the road and the green rolling hills. Past the freeway signs, flat tires, and quiet nights—nights where it’s just you and the darkness and the road and the damp smell of the rain that splatters against cracked asphalt.

In a sea of personal essay’s, this will (almost) be my first time sharing fiction. My plans for this venture are small and contained (and somewhat experimental). The goal of it being: to have fun.

Inside, the sun glares harshly against the wooden tabletop, as I methodically carve out each little piece of the ruby red grapefruit. Outside, the world remains frozen, covered in snow and ice and small birds with puffed feathers, hungry and searching.

The house is quiet, and the small ceramic mugs on the small white shelf glow in the Winter’s sun. I’m impressed—I’m always impressed, by how whole I feel when I see something of mine looking pretty against the backdrop of a moment I’ll likely be the only one to witness. It feels like a wonderful secret. One that is made sweeter and sweeter the longer it’s kept.

Maybe what I’ve been looking for is more of a feeling and less of a tangible thing. Maybe it’s something that can’t be held and shaped and made sense of. Maybe it’s something that has to take more time, and change its mind.

I’m forgetting something, I know I am, and the harder I try to catch it, the faster it runs—dust billowing and billowing as I stand watching and hoping it will turn around. Helping me to understand something, anything.

Maybe the thing I forgot: feeling small in this world doesn’t mean that I must keep myself as smooth and contained as the glass of water that still sits on your bedside table. Feeling small means pulling the curtains open to the same view every morning and having it remind you of something impossibly vast and new and familiar, as you inhale and allow the sun to warm the back of your eyelids. Again and again. Over and over.

On the same day, once a year, I never know where to begin, and so I pause. And soon I’ve paused long enough to have had my mind made up for me. It’s what I wanted, but it’s also not at all; I’m swept up in the expectation of it all, hoping and hoping that I am able to show how grateful I am for all this love. For the way people care for me and take care of me. It’s a day when being myself feels like too big of an ask, and the best I can do is say yes yes, I love that because you do, and I find it’s easier to trust you than to trust myself.

At first I thought I lost this footage, but then my computer just said it was out of storage. So, with some reluctance to spending the rest of my day deleting files, the space was cleared and the video was made and now I watch it over and over, reliving those four days in November.

It’s a peppermint chapstick that sticks to my lips like honey. It’s the backdrop of snow falling falling falling. It’s the infinite number of times I question and doubt myself before actually starting something, anything.

In this case, the starting is this, and this feels so small, so insignificant, that I wonder why it even matters that I question it at all? Either I write something or I don’t. Isn’t it that simple?

Crawling on my hands and knees, I do my best to make sure I don’t create a dent in the pillowing, mint-green branches of our evergreen tree, needles pricking the palm of my hands.

Once gathered, I tuck them under the twinkly white lights that wrap around the crooked wooden banister of our front porch. Smiling to myself, I slip the sap-covered scissors into my cherry red apron pocket, and take a few steps back to admire the glow from the candles on the inside windowsill; warmth and movement and life coming from the inside world, does more than soften my anxious thoughts.

Curating my home-space, and any other space for that matter, is something I can become completely consumed by. I start by asking myself how I want to feel? What I want a space to draw out of me? And while it’s not often that I have a new, big piece to center a project around, something as small as a candle, pillow, or tile “borrowed” from my mom’s collection, will do the trick.

The steam from my tea scolds the palms of my hands as I pause to wiggle my fingers over the keyboard. Waiting for the nod to begin again.

A reflection of the window plays out on the computer screen in front of me: a tree brushing up against a very blue sky. The tiny silver moon. A woman playing fetch with her dog. I wonder about going outside. I wonder how many layers I would need to stay warm.

Writing while sitting on the floor of my closet is a new-found comfort, and with few distractions, I can actually stay focused. About a year ago I took the doors off and put up artwork, which I guess makes it more of a creative space than the traditional closed-door, dusty-light, long-coats, portal-to-a-different-realm situation you might be thinking of (although, I like to think the latter is true for all closets).

Hello.

While I wobble around on one foot, putting on my left sock, and then my right, I take this opportunity to check in with the park happenings.

This park presses up against the backyard of our house, and because we have a chainlink fence, we can see into the lives of those that have made this expanse of green, scattered with tables under leafless trees, a part of their routine.

Hello.

Here’s a fictional essay called The Perfect Day. I wrote this when I thought I didn’t have anything to say. And maybe I didn’t, not really. Maybe all I had to talk about was my gripe with the perfect day, how impossible our expectations feel, or how disappointed we can become when something isn’t just so. Or maybe, we’re just feeling a certain way and there’s nothing to be done about it, even though we fight it and fight it until we’ve drained our energy and all that’s left to do is collapse on the floor in a heap.

So, here’s a story about the moments right in front of us. About how we view ourselves. About wanting to control our thoughts and surrounding. About the lengths we’ll go to not disappoint the person we were two hours ago.

Hello.

I steer my car outward, making an arch so I can avoid the older couple walking on the side of the road with their dog. They smile. I smile and wave back, continuing on down the road. When I come to the stop light I realize I’m still smiling. A little further on, I make the same arch for someone else, but this time, there’s no smile or wave back. I quickly put my hand down, feeling defeated and confused as my insides are screaming: I did this nice thing, please recognize me for it! And it’s true, they’re nice (these things we do). Really nice, and safe and helpful and considerate—things that we are often taught as children from our parents or teachers or mentors.

I do think that it’s ok that it made me feel good, and the feeling from it bleeds into the next moment, and if I’m lucky, the one after that. But if you, for instance, stop for the person who is not at a crosswalk, and they don’t acknowledge you, you are still allowed to feel good about that moment without the external validation from someone you don’t know. Anyways, I think what I am trying to say is: I often look for validation when all I need to do is ask myself what feels best. And if I really don’t know, then I can turn to someone that I trust, and ask them. And once I find that person that I trust, I must think about what they said, running it through my system, and wriggling it out of my toes and fingers.

Hello.

As I try to see the screen through an influx of tears, the world goes all fuzzy and I blink blink blink to brush it all away, eyelashes interlocking and frustration building.

I knew that this would sound a bit dramatic, but after too much time trying to pull words out of nothing, I decide to say this very dramatic thing anyway, while squeezing my eyes shut and hoping that what I thought was going to happen for the fourth time today, wouldn’t. But the tears did come, and with them a want to disappear into whatever was tugging at my wrists and pulling at my feet.

Hello.

My hair is fluffier on the coast, sticking out sideways from my face. Below me my feet cross over one another and the salty air slips in through the cracked window above my head.

It’s been raining non-stop, and the wind, starting in the late afternoon, shakes and rattles the front facing windows. They are the windows that face the ocean and the birds and the road that lead to the other houses down below.

Hello.

Sometimes I worry that I’ll run out of things to say and then I’ll be here with a promise I’m unable to keep and words that are hiding away, refusing to be found.

I am leaning against two pillows while on the guest bed, listening to the water rush down from the roof and onto the ground, which is a mixture of old snow and mud. There are ten minutes before therapy and I have a tea placed precariously on a paperback version of Bell Hooks’s, All About Love. I should make the effort to move it to a sturdier surface, but that would require me to shuffle about and lean forward, disrupting the aesthetic of this moment. I stay put.

Update: the closet in my office (and guest room) has been redone since my last email. I added twinkle lights and floor cushion and curtains and am beyond pleased with the outcome, which is no different to something 7-year-old Chloe would have created, and I like to think that the two of us could squeeze in behind the curtain and under the lights, with our books in hand and stories in mind.

Hello.

The closet in my office is small, and when I turn my head to the right, I can see the two collages I’ve hung up, alongside an old Fred Segal hat lined with red silk, and soft olive green fabric on the outside. It reminds me of something Taylor Swift would wear, and I like to think I would, too. Then there’s a Baggu bag with squash on it, a silk neck scarf the color of summer sunshine, and a wall hanging that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the office.

Below the wall things is a pink floral foot stool dedicated to my favorite coffee table books, a rolling shelf stacked with framed art I haven’t found a home for yet, soon-to-be-used journals, a painting of Mendocino, box of watercolor supplies, a special journal that I will only write very important things in (which I realize is too much pressure), and last but not least, a wand. Specifically, Harry Potter’s wand, because you never know when it might be useful.

Hello.

I wore a red rain-jacket on our walk and now there is a cat trying to sit on my computer. The whole world outside is a mix of gray and brown and green. Puddles the size of an ocean take up much of the driveway, and as I walk by the tree out back, swishing and squeaking in my rain-gear, I notice that the berries are red—nearly as red as my squeaky jacket. I take a photo on my camera, and since it’s film, I wonder how it will look in black and white. I wonder if you’ll be able to tell that the red is red. The same red as my jacket.

I’m here because it’s Friday, and I’ve decided that I’m sharing a letter every Friday.

I have therapy today, and last week I cried during my session. There was no way around it. There hasn’t been. Not recently, anyway. And when we trudged up the steep hill, stomping through a sea of wet leaves that sprayed the backs of our legs with each step, I realized that it’s not about not trying hard enough: I am sad and angry and frustrated that it cannot be different. And now I am back inside, sitting here with the rain coming down harder and harder and the cat’s soft belly going up and down and up and down and the cold tea and the thoughts that tell me I cannot work or write or do anything at all.

Hello.

Yesterday was hard and today is better.

Today I am trying out something new, which is a story by way of audio. It’s a format that I love, and maybe you do too. I didn’t write this to be read aloud. It felt strange, and at first, I kept stumbling over my words, but after five or so tries, I finally fell into a groove, and even wound up enjoying the messiness of the process.

The idea of having my voice spread across this little corner of the internet is unsettling, and I am likely overthinking it. Because really, it’s not a big deal and we all worry more about ourselves than anyone else, anyways. Meaning: this will just be a blip. A here and there. The smallest of small moments until it’s gone. Except that as long as I am here, it won’t be gone, and I will probably come back to listen and cringe and also be kind of proud of myself.