I have never gone so long with nary an update here. It's like a muscle memory I have lost. Mostly I edit others writing these days and rejoice. I cull and edit my own and recoil. And laugh if I am lucky. An anthology of my work is coming out next year, some of it is from here. I don't think I have re-read an entry here, on purpose, in about seven years. As I grew into writing professionally, mostly, mothering amateurly--all my mind was taken with those things. I barely remember life before most days. Took the kids to a playground with Uncle JR, that back a decade ago we used to skate, poorly, and talk about Mobb Deep and big plans and our bad haircuts would waft in the breeze. Nostalgia has become such a stasis; I don't like looking back. Sometimes I thought I should up and delete all of this as a way of reconciling who I am with who I have been. Weird shame of what I put up on this internet like a hangover into adult life. Confronting what I regret. Confronting what years of hard freelance hustle have done to or for my writing. But instead, I have to--choose to--come back and comb and say it's worth something. It's better and worse than I thought. I had a lot I wanted to prove to the world then, I was eager to dazzle and high on confidence that I could. Some of my best work is here and often I hardly recognize the girl that wrote it.