Here’s to poor decisions: to eating 1/2 of a chocolate bar at an old typewriter, mistaking a machine for a friend, or worse yet, a lover. Here’s to “doing the passionate thing” and majoring in Creative Writing when everyone knows—sorry, assumes— that STEMs (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics degrees) get the good jobs, fancy houses, and beautiful girls.
Here’s to finding my voice again, without the use of pens, pencils, or loose-leaf paper. Here’s to going back to the basics, where I first fell in love with words and sentences, language and prose; back to the place where nothing could hurt me so long as I was hiding, nestling, reverencing between the pages of a book.
Here’s to letting go of a perfectionist mentality and allowing myself to make mistakes, correct my wrongs, repent of sin wholeheartedly, and actually let love and friendship come and sit for a while.
Here’s to poor decisions: to self-care on a weekday that lasts the whole 24-hour span, to noticing the wittiness and laughter which writers use to convey nothing less than brutal jewels of harsh truth and reality, to ending the dark night of my soul, finally, with the Light of truth.
Here’s to not letting a day go by without me reading something of substance. Here’s to being honest with myself, especially when it is hard and when it hurts. Here’s to me giving up the notion of writing “THE NEXT BESTSELLER.” Here’s to me writing for myself. Here’s to poor decisions.