A Mother’s Love (Fiction)

“I think you’re going to be just fine.”

Those were the words that made Liam’s eyes well up as the light of the computer bounced off his horn-rimmed glasses. His pink face turned into a puffy hot blimp as the tears streamed down in twisty little trails, leaving dark splotches on the collar of his shirt.

You see, those were exactly the words Liam needed to hear after the fight that led up to where he was now.

He’d been agonizing over what to tell his mother for months — no, years. He’d always kind of known. He never did fit in with the girls his age, and he felt drawn to this different, alternate version of himself, a version he was actually comfortable with. He’d made a clandestine ritual of throwing out his femme clothes and began seeing a doctor in secret for testosterone.

After several months, though, the changes were impossible to hide. His flute-like voice had started deepening into a warm tenor. His peach fuzz had begun turning into a proper smattering of patchy teen boy facial hair. He’d been concealing his already-small breasts with a binder. He even started smelling like your average 18-year-old guy (well, part of that was admittedly the Axe).

He had to say something. Anything.

“Mom,” he started, appearing in the doorway of the living room where his mother was seated watching Jeopardy. “I need to tell you something. I’m a boy. My name is Liam.”

“Leah—“

“Liam, Mom.”

His mother snatched the remote and made a show of muting the television. “Leah, this isn’t you. You’re my little girl.”

Liam crossed his arms. “Mom, I’ve never felt like a girl. I don’t want to be a girl. That’s not who I am.”

“Who put these ideas in your head?” she hissed indignantly.

“No one, I promise! I’ve always felt like I was different! I just have a word for it now, Mom. I’m trans.”

The remote flew across the room. “No child of mine is going to fall for that transsexual nonsense. Leah, go say your goodbyes to your internet friends, because starting tomorrow, I’m going to be monitoring everything you do online.”

Liam’s bright blue eyes went wide. “You can’t do that! I’m eighteen!”

“And you live under my roof until you graduate, Leah. I’m not entertaining any of this. You are a girl and you always will be. I named you Leah and you will die a Leah.”

Silence.

“I just wanted you to understand me,” Liam muttered, thankful the darkness of the dimmed living room concealed his tears. He turned away from his mother and bolted up the stairs to his room.

“‘Say goodbye to my internet friends,’” Liam repeated under his breath. “Like I have any.”

Desperate for advice, he booted up the search engine on his laptop and frantically searched “FTM forums.” FTM, of course, being the widely used abbreviation for “female-to-male,” or more precisely, trans dudes.

What Liam didn’t know is that “FTM” had another meaning he wasn’t aware of, one he’d not considered when he received a DM from a certain stranger.

WildHeart39: I see you’re looking for some advice?

LonelySloth2007: hi, I’m 18 and really scared

WildHeart39: Yeah, I was there too not too long ago.

LonelySloth2007: really? how did you tell your mom??

WildHeart39: It just got really obvious after a while and I had to say something.

LonelySloth2007: that’s exactly what happened to me

WildHeart39: How did she take it?

LonelySloth2007: not great lol

WildHeart39: That’s a shame. It should be a happy occasion, you know?

LonelySloth2007: exactly, and it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am anymore

WildHeart39: Were you close before?

LonelySloth2007: we were always really close but she can’t accept me like this

WildHeart39: That’s a real shame. You seem like a really sweet person.

LonelySloth2007: I needed to hear that, thank you 🙂

WildHeart39: I won’t lie, I’m a little scared myself. No one gives you a how-to guide!

LonelySloth2007: yeah, like the body changes are exciting but scary

WildHeart39: It’s almost like going through puberty again! Like what the hell are my titties doing?

LonelySloth2007: I heard all the fat gets redistributed though with all the hormones and shit lol

WildHeart39: Don’t get me started on the hormones! I feel like I’m going crazy all the time!

LonelySloth2007: is that normal?

WildHeart39: I think it is, but I think you get used to it eventually.

LonelySloth2007: how long did it take everyone to be accepting?

WildHeart39: I’ll be honest, a lot of people weren’t accepting. I come from a very religious family.

LonelySloth2007: my mom’s not religious, she’s just mean sometimes

WildHeart39: Sadly some people are just that. I always say that if religion never existed, people would find some other excuse to be a dick.

LonelySloth2007: that’s so true tho

WildHeart39: I don’t know a lot about being a parent yet, but I know that you’re supposed to love your child unconditionally, you know? I already love mine.

LonelySloth2007: you seem really kind

WildHeart39: I’m just trying to be a light, you know? The way they always taught us in Sunday school. Be a light unto the world, or whatever. At least I’m living out that part of Jesus’s message. Even if I’m a filthy sinner to most people.

LonelySloth2007: you’re not a filthy sinner!

WildHeart39: And neither are you.

LonelySloth2007: you really mean that?

WildHeart39: I know we’re just internet strangers, but I really appreciated talking to you tonight. I don’t think you’re a bad person or a sinner. I think you have a beautiful heart.

LonelySloth2007: …

WildHeart39: Did I say something wrong?

LonelySloth2007: no, just no one’s ever been this nice to me before

WildHeart39: I’m glad I could be that to you!

LonelySloth2007: I’m really scared things are gonna go wrong

WildHeart39: Listen, there’s a lot of uncertainty in this world, and to be honest, I’m worried for my little one. I hope I can give her the kind of life she deserves. And I hope if she ever comes to me with something that’s bothering her, that I can be there for her.

LonelySloth2007: you sound like a good dad

WildHeart39: *mom, but it looks like I’m going to be doing both duties anyways!

LonelySloth2007: fair enough haha

WildHeart39: Anyways, the cravings are hitting me hard tonight, so I’m gonna go DoorDash myself something. But keep your head up. I think you’re going to be just fine.

At that exact moment, a young woman logged off the first-time mom forum to order herself some cookies. She rested her hands on her swollen belly and smiled.

And somewhere on the other side of the nation, Liam smiled, too.

Serving Glimmers: How Art and Performance Can Save Lives

I had a realization a while back — one of the reasons I pursued music therapy was because it looked “good.” It seemed like a noble profession, using music to improve people’s lives in a meaningful, measurable way. I’d tell people I was studying music therapy and it was an instant “Ah yes, I can trust her, as she is clearly a good person.” All my boyfriends’ moms loved me for it, and strangers would tell me what I’m doing is so beautiful, so kind. It may just be playing guitar for some kid in a hospital, but to that kid, you’re a hero! And who doesn’t want to be a hero, you know?

I think I have a hero complex, and I think that’s what’s prevented me from jumping headfirst into performance instead. I always wanted to be a hero. I wanted to help people. And if I became a rock star, who would I be helping except my own selfish desires?

The typical perception of pretty much everybody is that performing and the arts are just little “extras.” They’re nothing but fun little distractions, right? No one needs a movie or a comic book or music to live.

QUICK! GET HIM THE LATEST TAYLOR SWIFT ALBUM!

What I’m slowly realizing is that, while we don’t need the arts to live, we absolutely need the arts to really live.

When I moved to Kalamazoo, I searched frantically for work. I would have taken damn near anything, but I wanted to try finding a job involving music. And lo and behold, a trivia company was looking for a music bingo host in my area. And I mean, getting to essentially be part-DJ, part-game show host every night?

I love what I do. It’s a great gig. But for a while, I was feeling like what I did didn’t really matter in the long run. People come into the bar, play music bingo, and leave, going on to live their own lives. I imagine there are probably nurses and firefighters in the audience, and what I do must seem so inconsequential compared to what they deal with every day. And I think those thoughts were starting to wear on me, because I got complaints from one of the bars I work at that I wasn’t “engaging enough.” At first I was angry, because what do you mean I’m not good enough?! But then I realized maybe I’m not giving it my all, and maybe that was because I felt like my job wasn’t important.

So I determined that this show would be my best show yet. I dressed just short of a full drag queen getup, picked some banger categories, and drank enough caffeine to kill a horse. I promised myself I’d socialize the whole time, even if I wanted to sit down. I even moved the chair so I wouldn’t be tempted to just sit down. I was going to give this show my all.

Then, something amazing happened. Sometimes, when you put good vibes out into the universe, the stars align and give you exactly what you need in that moment. What I needed was a glimmer.

Everyone knows what triggers are, but I recently saw that someone coined a term for the opposite phenomenon — glimmers. These are the tiny moments that make life worth living. I experience a glimmer every time I laugh with my wife, or hug my girlfriend, or hear my parents say they’re proud of me. They’re what being alive is all about. They’re little moments of pure joy, which was exactly what I needed.

I walked into the bar to an array of balloons. It was an older couple’s 55th anniversary, and I was going to be hosting music bingo smack dab in the middle of it. Thankfully, the couple was cool about me coming to blast disco at them and even joined in the game, along with many of the other folks in attendance. The older woman who was celebrating her anniversary came up to me and told me that her and her husband’s song was “You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain. And anyone who knows me knows I never miss an opportunity to play Shania Twain.

Tangentially related fact: I was so obsessed with her as a small child, I’d draw pictures of her and not my mom. (Yes, my mom was a little jealous.)

When intermission came, the bar dimmed the lights, leaving only the hanging Christmas lights to illuminate the room. I cued up the song and introduced the couple to the entire bar. Then, everyone gathered around the couple with their phone flashlights. Seeing all of their friends and family surround them in a sea of twinkling lights actually made me tear up a little. The family would remember this moment for the rest of their lives.

A moment I helped make happen.

It’s easy to dismiss entertainment as an opium of the masses, even more so than religion, as Marx famously said. But I’d argue that entertainment is as important as the STEM fields, just in a completely different way. Sure, a particular song may be insignificant to you, but that song could have been the one thing that stopped someone from taking their own life. There’s a reason for this album’s existence. I know people who stay alive because they want to see what happens next in their favorite video game franchise. The arts and media provide those small glimmers that keep people going.

So maybe I will go all-in on being an entertainer and creator. Because someone somewhere needs my music. Someone somewhere needs a fun game night at the local bar. Someone somewhere is reading my writings about mental health and my own personal journey and feels less alone because of it. Artists, writers, musicians, video game developers, game show hosts — they’re all heroes in a unique but important way. Entertainment and art communicate ideas, and more than that, hope.

That’s why I do what I do.

How I Invented Myself (As a Thirteen-Year-Old Girl With a Sketchbook)

First of all, this blog post needs a visual:

This post isn’t just an excuse to share a picture of me looking like an absolute baddie. You see, I made this very weird, very cool realization when I scrolled through recent pics to find this particular one.

That woman in the picture? I invented her.

When I was a kid, I had a lot of original characters. They were kind of my only friends when I didn’t have any to speak of. It’s easy to forget that I was ever uncool, but I very much was for most of my early life. I’ve talked about how I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets, but that was really the tip of the iceberg. It got a lot worse than that at times. I scarcely remember a day in middle school where I didn’t come home from school crying. So I made up these imaginary people, usually rock stars, who’d be my friends, and on occasion, I’d make one whom I wanted to be.

That was Anne…I can’t remember her last name. It was Greek. She was Greek, as I had a brief Greek mythology phase (every teenage girl has one, I swear) and I’m pretty sure I made her to be the modern incarnation of Aphrodite. But I distinctly remember almost everything else about her. She had long dark hair, wore sort of gothy clothes, including fishnet stockings and gloves, and impossibly high black boots. She was the lead singer and guitarist of a rock band called Valentÿne (the umlaut is v important), and she had a teenaged little sister named Sophie of whom she’d become caregiver. She was an amalgamation of women I looked up to at the time — the Wilson sisters of Heart, other rocker chicks I admired, my own older sister, even. She was very much a wish-fulfillment OC, as I wanted nothing more to be a bad bitch with a soft side who wore cool-ass clothes and had confidence.

And I think I’m finally there. I’m not a rock star by any means, but I have people who follow my music career and love what I do, and that’s enough. I’ve got the looks now — dyeing my hair dark for my 30s was a good move. And in a way, I do feel like I’m the caregiver of a smaller, more innocent me. Sophie was always sort of my “inner child” in a way. I’ve become this character I invented as a little girl, and it’s so cool to see realized.

I keep drawing the Queen of Wands when I ask my tarot decks questions about myself, and I think that’s telling. I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little “-stitious,” so to speak, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence I keep getting this card.

The Queen of Wands represents a fiery, sexy, confident, vivacious woman who knows what she wants and knows how to get it. She is everything I created Anne to be, and I feel like I’m finally seeing those things in myself too.

It took me long enough, but I’m happy with who I am today. In fact, I think that might be a small reason why I’ve had trouble coming up with characters and stories as of late — I’m actually content with who I am and who’s in my life. That’s never happened to me before. It makes me want to hide inside my imagination less. Which is honestly not a good thing for a creative, so I should probably address that sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, I’ll enjoy this contentment.

It’s hard to believe I manifested this version of myself as a lonely 13-year-old girl with a sketchpad and big dreams, but stranger things have happened, ya know? I remember a time when I hated being me, so I feel like I’ve earned this feeling. I hope I continue to evolve into even greater versions of myself as I continue through life, and I’m excited to share that journey with you here.

“Emotional Bloodletting” (Or, Why This Blog Exists in the First Place)

Why do you blog?

Here’s the short answer: so I don’t lose my freakin’ mind.

The long answer is a bit more complicated.

I started this blog back in 2018 (I think). At the time, I was married to someone I wasn’t truly in love with and stuck in a conservative church that increasingly came to represent everything I didn’t want to stand for. I was still fresh out of college with a journalism degree I knew I was never going to use, but I still had the itch to write something. Anything. So my blog, which at the time was titled “I’m sorry I mean it,” simply became me screaming my displeasure with my current life into the void. “I’m sorry I mean it” was a double meaning — “I’m sorry and I mean it,” and “I’m sorry, but I mean what I’m saying.”

Writing has always been a catharsis for me, though, dating back to elementary school. When I was teased mercilessly and ostracized by nearly everyone, I made up characters to serve as “friends” for me. I didn’t have imaginary friends in the traditional sense of the word — I knew these characters were make-believe — but they were real enough to me to fill a void. My long school days were spent daydreaming about these fictional characters, and eventually, their stories spilled onto paper. I’d hurry up and finish my work for the day, then spend the rest of my time fleshing out these characters in stories I dreamed up, usually inspired by whatever I was into at the time. I had a whole series based around three pets trying to get home and the grand adventures they would go on.

My writing is nothing if not derivative, but it’s cool.

That’s part of why I find it harder to write these days. For the first time, I’m genuinely pretty happy. I don’t have to rely on my inner world to satiate my desire for human interaction. I have two amazing partners, a wildly supportive family, and more friends than I know what to do with. But I still love writing to clear my mind on the bad days. It’s how I handle negative emotions, as evidenced by the everything on this blog. If I couldn’t write about my music therapy journey on here, for example, I probably would have lost my mind. The entire experience was so traumatic, I needed to vent about it somehow. Just the act of hitting “publish” on a blog post gives me a sense of relief. As painful as it is to put these emotions down into words, once it’s over, it’s no longer stuck inside me. In a way, it’s emotional bloodletting.

There are other reasons I write too. I realize I have a unique lived experience as a queer polyamorous Christian woman, and I have a platform where I can tell my side of the story. In a world that’s become increasingly hostile to folks breaking the norm, I feel like my words give a voice to a lot of people who aren’t represented in media. I know this from private messages I’ve received. My blog makes people feel seen, and I love it for that reason. My mom always encouraged me to write about socio-political issues — the pen is mightier than the sword, as she would say.

I *know* I’ve made this joke before, but it bears repeating. It’s what Mom would’ve wanted.

Writing, to me, is my biggest catharsis aside from music, and the two often go hand-in-hand. I’ve written some of my best lyrics as a result of emotional turmoil. “Ladies Don’t Start Fights (But They Can Finish Them)” was written about a feud with a former best friend who betrayed my trust. “Queen” was written during a time when my bipolar swung into a deep depression as a way to lift my own spirits. My newest song, “Fake Nice,” is my way of coping with criticism from my partner’s mother, someone whose opinion of me I valued. If I couldn’t write about the things that bother me, I don’t think I would have made it this far in life.

If you’ve been following my blog for any amount of time, I want to personally thank you for being with me through the highs and lows. It hasn’t been an easy few years, and this blog has seen me through some of my worst days. I appreciate the time you’ve taken to read my words and take them to heart. I do this not just for me, but for you, too! This is my way of screaming to the world, “Hey! You’re not alone!” I just want to be a light on someone else’s darkest times. I want people to read this blog and know that they’re in good company, that things will eventually turn out okay with time.

And that’s why I write.

Why It’s Hard to Put My Work Out There

When I was in high school, I dreamed up these characters I’ve kept with me for almost 15 years. They were colorful characters inspired by guys and girls in local bands I looked up to, each one with their own unique backstory. There was Alex, the sort of fish-out-of-water heir to a tire company. There was Charlie, the Moog synthesizer-playing cheerleader with a ostomy bag. There was Kit, a Lebanese emo teen who was basically three mental illnesses dressed up in skinny jeans. And so many more who became good friends to me this past decade.

As of writing this blog post, I’ve finally written the second arc of the story. And it feels good, like I’m finally accomplishing something. But in a way, it feels almost empty.

What’s the use of writing a story if no one reads it?

I’ll admit I’m not the best at self-promotion. If I was, I’d probably be a much bigger writer and musician. I’d say I don’t know how to put myself out there, but I think it runs deeper than that. I’m scared of putting myself and my work out there, because doing that opens up room for judgement, and I don’t handle that well.

The only time I dealt with massive amounts of hate online, it was from right-wing asshats who hate me for being queer, which fucking sucks. But I feel like if someone hated me for my work, as opposed to who I am as a person, that honestly feels worse. I can’t change who I am — that’s a problem with the haters. But to hate the things I lovingly created, that I put time and heart into, that really stings. A lot.

But that’s the price of fame, right? I want people to fall in love with my characters and become as invested in the story as me. If I want my story to get “out there” and gain a following, I’m going to have to be vulnerable, as difficult as that may be. I don’t want my story to be forgotten to time.

I may never be the next great creator, but I want to make a name for myself.

Self-Love Prompt #1: Connecting to the Earth

I was browsing Barnes & Noble when I happened upon these little cards. It’s a box of 70 writing prompts meant to inspire self-love and reflection. I need some fresh material for my blog other than giving life updates, and this seemed like the perfect way to spark some creativity. Sitting at a hookah bar with my wife, I drew my first card:

And I blanked immediately. How do I feel connected to the earth? That’s such a lofty concept, I’m not sure I know how to answer that. The first thing that came to mind was my dabblings in magic and witchcraft. I hesitate to call myself a Christian witch (which is not an oxymoron surprisingly), as I don’t practice nearly enough. But my personal religious beliefs align somewhere between Christianity, witchery, and science. And a connection with our life-giving planet is a crucial part of all of those philosophies.

When I lived by the lake, I liked to take walks and collect various things I found along the way. Little pinecones and flowers and such. I’d put them on my altar alongside my favorite crystals and religious symbols like pictures and statues of saints I admire. I took a lot of pride in arranging my findings to be aesthetically pleasing. It was soothing, and I felt like I was bringing a little bit of Mother Nature home with me.

Another practice I enjoy when it’s a little warmer out is grounding by standing or laying on the grass or dirt with no shoes. Someone once told me it’s a great way to feel connected to the earth, and I agree! Is there anything scientific to it? I doubt it, but it feels good. I like standing in water even more though, feeling the waves hit my feet and my toes buried in the sand. I think it’s the Pisces in me, or maybe the Michigander in me. I just really like lakes, okay?

On a grander scale, just existing alongside other living beings makes me feel like part of something greater than myself. We’re all part of this beautiful cosmic experiment called humanity, and it’s pretty awesome when you think about it. We’re eight billion interconnected stories, all unfolding at once. Someday, God willing, I’ll have kids of my own, and perhaps they’ll have their own kids eventually, and the great cycle of life will continue. It’s the same cycle that’s been happening since the dawn of time. I’m someone’s great-great-granddaughter, and maybe one day, I’ll be someone’s great-great-grandmother. It’s all very overwhelming and exciting to think about.

I think being connected to the earth is much more than just being connected to a clod of dirt floating in space. It’s being connected to each other, to flesh and blood, and it’s being connected spiritually. You can’t love the planet without loving one another. We’re all a part of this together. And that’s pretty dope actually.

“Perfection is the Enemy of Completion”: My NaNoWriMo Experience So Far

I realize I haven’t been very active on here as of late. That’s for a couple of reasons. First of all, I’ve been busy packing and preparing for the move to Fort Wayne this January, which is rapidly approaching. To be honest, clearing out our apartment and getting together all the things we’ll need for the sixth months of the internship is kind of a full time job. Especially when you’re me and have an ungodly amount of clothes. Like, dragon hoard levels of clothing.

Most importantly, I’ve been working on NaNoWriMo this year. Will I actually finish a novel? Probably not, if I’m being realistic. I restarted my story like five times already and decided to ditch it altogether for an idea I had like a year ago, so there’s that.

I haven’t actually finished a story since elementary school. When I was a kid, I’d come up with stories all the time, and while the teacher was rattling off about long division, I was busy penning the first great children’s book written by an actual child. I was kind of legendary among the staff at my school for my precocious writing abilities. It was one of the few things I was good at, because God knows “obeying social norms” and “paying attention in class” was not among those things.

I still remember the series I sunk my heart and soul into: The Great Adventure. Creative name, I know. And the plot was equally creative — three pets get lost and have to find their way home. No, I definitely didn’t steal the idea from Homeward Bound.

As I got older, the stories I came up with got more complex, and the middle school teachers I had weren’t as keen on me writing during class, so I just kind of…stopped. For a while at least. When I finally picked up the pen again, or rather, booted up the word processor on my family’s shiny new computer for the first time, I found myself unable to get past the first chapter of, well, anything. All of my amazing story ideas were dead on arrival.

I think as I got older, I lost that sense of fun I had when it came to writing. Now that I was in my teens, and eventually twenties and thirties, I held myself to higher standards than I did as a child. Everything had to be perfect. I couldn’t half-ass anything, lest the entire project turn to dog crap. I couldn’t even write a few pages without having to revise everything and eventually rewrite what I had altogether.

For NaNoWriMo this year, I decided to try something different. I have this character from the project I’ve been working on (that I’ll probably never finish) named Tessa, and she’s canonically thirteen years old at the start of the story. I thought to myself, what if I write the story from her perspective? Perhaps writing from the point of view of a literal child will allow me to get into that headspace I had when I was a kid, when I could write anything. There was room for errors because hey, I was a kid. I don’t have to hold myself up to these ridiculous standards because realistically, a thirteen year old’s diary would be a trainwreck of ideas and stream of conscious blathering.

And so far, it’s been working. I’m kind of excited to follow this character through seven years and watch her grow. I plan to adjust my writing as she gets older, which will be a fun experiment in style. I don’t think I’ll finish this project by the end of November, but I’m off to a great start finally creating something, anything.

My girlfriend often tells me perfection is the enemy of completion, and it’s better for something to be published and imperfect than flawless but unpublished. What use are stories if no one ever gets to hear them? For once, I want to finish something I’ve started, and I’m feeling good about this one.

Without further ado, here’s a little snippet of what I’ve been working on:

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Dr. Roberta told me to start keeping a journal to track how I’m feeling every day. She also told me to stop selling my Adderall to the high schoolers. Welp.

My mom bought me this college-ruled notebook from Meijer. It’s got enough pages to last until I’m like, twenty. The front has a bunch of flowers and crap. (Wait, am I allowed to say that?! Crap crap crap CRAP!) I don’t really know what I’m doing as far as writing goes. Do I just write down whatever pops into my big dumb head? Do I address this to anyone? Like, “Dear Diary, this is Tessa Mae Harlow reporting on my boring life.” I don’t even know what to write about. I’m thirteen, I’m not interesting yet.

I’m writing this from the stoop of the old brick house down the street. I usually come here after school to get away from my parents and brother and listen to the cassette tapes my mom passed down to me. That is, if I’m not hanging out with Kit or going to youth group for the evening. The house itself was built in the 20s I think. It’s “has a radiator in the living room” old. Sometimes I sneak through the window when I’m feeling brave and take pictures of the interior. It was probably a pretty place in its prime, but now it’s what you’d call dilapidated. “Dilapidated,” incidentally, was one of the words I had to spell for the spelling bee last year, and the definition is “decayed, deteriorated, or fallen into partial ruin especially through neglect or misuse.” I could spell that, but not “below.” I’m still salty about that.

Yeah, I’m having a lot of fun with this. I’ll keep y’all posted.

Richie Sambora Had a Charizard (And Other Tales From My Childhood)

I’ve been doing a series of healing prompts in my personal journal. The topics are meant to probe into your soul and reveal stuff about you, or something deep like that. Anyways, the first prompt in the journal was “What did you like to do as a child?” And well…

I was a weird kid. I would often read the dictionary and encyclopedia for fun. I remember curling up with my grandma’s Encyclopedia Brittanica collection and reading about whatever interested me at the time (and sex, because of course!). I also liked drawing out ideas for inventions and projects I wanted to do, like a bird circus or a flying couch. At night, I’d put on my favorite Richie Sambora CD or the local classic rock station and play The Sims for hours until I fell asleep. I enjoyed making Sims and killing them off, not because I was a terrible sadist as a child, but because killing them would turn them into ghosts, and I wanted to make haunted houses. I also liked putting on my headphones and pacing around the house listening to my favorite songs. With friends, I enjoyed playing make-believe, usually pretending to be our favorite musicians, pro wrestlers, anime characters, and/or Pokémon. (It was an odd cast of characters.) I liked writing down the ideas for stories I had in my head and often dreamed about becoming the youngest author ever. I didn’t like to read because I was too busy making my own books!

Yeah, I was weird as heck.

I’ve written quite a bit about my childhood on here, but I don’t think I’ve ever talked about my elephant-sized imagination as a kid. Anyone who came in contact with me knew about the endless worlds in my head, about my stories and make-believe games. I’d talk about them anyone who’d listen, from my mom to the lady checking us out at Kmart (especially the lady checking us out at Kmart). And all two of my friends naturally had to take part in my shenanigans.

We had this game, right? We called it Pokémon and Friends. The first part is obvious. We’d play as Pokémon. Pretty straightforward. Where it gets interesting is the “and Friends” part. That could mean anyone. Like I said in the prompt, the characters ranged from Bon Jovi to Jennifer Lopez to some pro wrestlers to Goku and even the witches from Charmed, if anyone actually remembers that show.

The Sanderson sisters, but hot and without the whole “eating children” schtick.

We’d play that stupid game from dawn to dusk if we could, pretending to be all these random characters as Pokémon trainers. I can still remember every single Pokémon each character had (Richie Sambora had a Charizard, for one). The game followed us on vacation, and if we watched an interesting movie, we’d adapt the plot to whatever storyline we were working on. There were so many intricacies, I had to start writing them down.

And that’s how I got into writing.

As we got older, my friends lost interest in Pokémon and Friends, but I still had a million stories going in my head at once. So I changed the names of the characters, filed off the serial numbers, so to speak, and wrote them back to life in my own works. Most of those stories are lost to time or remained unfinished, but some of the character archetypes and plot lines made it into the stories I’m still working on today.

I guess I have to credit Baby Jess for her creativity, and Adult Jess for never letting it die. I hope I never lose that simple joy of creating.

Dear Cadence, Part Seventeen: Write This Down

This is the final installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, and Part Sixteen

I’ve been a writer my entire life. It’s almost as entwined with my being as music is. I love stories, and I love telling stories. The story you just read is my story, so far at least. God willing, I’ll have another 70 years on this giant rock we call home. I still want to see you grow up, make a living for yourself, perhaps even have children of your own, should that be in the cards for you.

Nothing lasts forever, which is a hard truth that I’m struggling with as I write these words. Buildings become decrepit, objects get lost, people change and evolve and eventually die, and there’s nothing you can do about it. We are as impermanent as the leaves of an autumn tree. But the things we create outlive us.

I started this project as a way to document my time here. I may be just another woman amongst billions of other people with their own interesting lives, but there will never, ever be another me. And there will never be another you, either.

Isn’t it fascinating to realize that every single person ever has their own story? There are eight billion intersecting storylines happening as I write this, eight billion unique lives that will never happen again. And that’s not counting the billions upon billions of people who have already come and gone. Maybe they left a legacy, or perhaps they were forgotten to time. It’s the latter that fascinates me most, more than the famous folks who went on to become legends. It’s the people whose stories will never be known, whose names were lost to history. It makes me sad to think about too long, if I’m honest.

Cadence, if you do nothing else with your time here, I want you to write. All the time. About everything. It doesn’t have to be grammatically perfect or even presentable. Just write down your life and experiences, the same as I’ve written mine for you. Someday, if you have kids, they’ll want to know who you were and where they came from. And even if you don’t have kids, you’ll come back to your diary or journal someday and remember how beautiful life was. Moments are as fleeting as existence itself. One day, you’ll be old and gray, but the memories you’ve made will be forever preserved through your journals.

I want to leave you with this. Leave a legacy. Don’t be content to be forgotten to time. Live without abandon, and leave something to be remembered by. Do great things, and be exceptional to everyone you meet. And always, always lead with love. We will all die, but love lives on forever. I know I’ve loved you long before you were ever born, and I’ll love you long after I’m gone.

Wherever you go in this life, I’ll be with you always.