An Intermission in Creativity
Pitchforks down. Let me explain.
I suppose the first thing I should do is apologize, properly, for literally dying on all of you. I have been perfecting my vodka tonic, feverishly obsessing over Meghan Markle (rip her instagram), loosely contemplating wallpapering one of my guest bathrooms and shamelessly avoiding all responsibility.
Where do I begin?
Like Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Walker (Babe), some voices are a gift to the world. I too, for a time, believed I would take my rightful place beside these literary giants...
I began this journalistic odyssey, if you will, under the impression my quick wit and self-deprecating humor would translate as charming and approachable, fast-tracking me to internet stardom… and naively believing I was capable of generating “original” content on a semi-regular basis.
Jokes on me.
I’m overwhelmed just thinking about how overwhelming it it truly is. So. Much. Content. I’m trying, I tell you, to get over myself and put pen to paper… or week-old manicure to keyboard in this case. It’s possible that if you all shower me with praise that my ego will inflate justtttttt enough to cause me to believe my particular brand genius is truly needed.
Woe is me, right?
While on hiatus, there were moments of self-discovery, self-love, self-hatred, self-reflection, self-worship, and ultimately self-assuredness. I was being true to myself, being silent, being present, being obsessed with Morgan Stewart, being Alex. I needed to reintroduce myself to myself. Let me, take me, out.
But today I’m taking a leap of faith... a trust fall... a cosmic chance - if you will so that the two of us may begin to rebuild this fucking bridge to friendship, or whatever.
In the coming days you will notice a shift of sorts. During my intermission in creativity, I came to realize that I had become the far (farrrrrrrrrrr) less prominent Anne Hathaway of shelter blogs. Snooze. Gone are the days in which I stow away unsavory sentiments. Gone is the girl who is fearful of having her thoughts documented in written form - despite that it’s likely a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Nice” girl, no longer.
So, instead of pulling my hair out, attempting to pen the next Nobel on brass hardware, I'm going to approach this very "stream of consciousness." Come what may.
Au Revoir, Anne.
I’ll be easing back onto the scene as I’d hate to overwhelm anyone (and also because I am terribly unsure of where to go from here.) I do plan, however, on being extremely non-Anne Hathaway in 2018. Trust.