I don’t have a bountiful womb. Or maybe I do. The point is I’m not hell bent on finding out.
I’ve wanted to write since I was twelve-years-old. It’s never been a choice of whether I wanted to or not. I have to write just like I have to wear a bra with extra padding or pretend I’m not checking myself out in the full-length mirror at the mall when I totally am. Breathing, eating, taking a peaceful bathroom break, one in which my toddler doesn’t insist on blowing bye-bye kisses to “mommy’s poo poo,” don’t even begin to compare to the feeling of building sky high cities and breaking them down one key stroke at a time.
But children have a way of freezing your fingers and keeping the page painfully, shamefully blank.
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