bloom anyway

Here is an inspiring piece I found for those of us who started late, for those of us wondering how J.K. Rowling or Stephen King does it, for those of us scrambling and crawling back to our favourite book in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep obsessing and begging for our characters to tell us their secrets, for those of us late bloomers who weren’t child prodigies in churning out beautiful moving words on a page: late is merely an adjective, bloom anyway.

The power of someone believing in you is precious. Hold them close. They believe in your story; they believe in you, even when you don’t believe in yourself.

This is the final lesson of the late bloomer: his or her success is highly contingent on the efforts of others. In biographies of Cézanne, Louis-Auguste invariably comes across as a kind of grumpy philistine, who didn’t appreciate his son’s genius. But Louis-Auguste didn’t have to support Cézanne all those years. He would have been within his rights to make his son get a real job, just as Sharie might well have said no to her husband’s repeated trips to the chaos of Haiti. She could have argued that she had some right to the life style of her profession and status—that she deserved to drive a BMW, which is what power couples in North Dallas drive, instead of a Honda Accord, which is what she settled for.

But she believed in her husband’s art, or perhaps, more simply, she believed in her husband, the same way Zola and Pissarro and Vollard and—in his own, querulous way—Louis-Auguste must have believed in Cézanne. Late bloomers’ stories are invariably love stories, and this may be why we have such difficulty with them. We’d like to think that mundane matters like loyalty, steadfastness, and the willingness to keep writing checks to support what looks like failure have nothing to do with something as rarefied as genius. But sometimes genius is anything but rarefied; sometimes it’s just the thing that emerges after twenty years of working at your kitchen table.

“Sharie never once brought up money, not once—never,” Fountain said. She was sitting next to him, and he looked at her in a way that made it plain that he understood how much of the credit for “Brief Encounters” belonged to his wife. His eyes welled up with tears. “I never felt any pressure from her,” he said. “Not even covert, not even implied.”


u / yu / you / yuu

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Twenty-Five.”

There are 26 letters in the English language, and we need every single one of them. Want proof? Choose a letter and write a blog post without using it. (Feeling really brave? Make it a vowel!)

When I met you, you re-shaped my sentences and stories in such a specific way that I couldn’t write without your image hovering over the page telling my words where to go, where to hide, where to slip, and where to stick.

And my words follow you. My words needed you since you smiled and looked at me as we danced.

You’re like a shadow: inevitable during the day, faint and haunting at night.

You’re the invisible vowel that holds my story together, and I cannot write without you.

And all my stories are a rewriting of your name, a rewriting of the moment you came to my life, a revisiting of the many yesterdays you have made relevant, vivid as the present time as if you are still here.

dear followers,

Thank you for taking the time reading and following my blog. I appreciate the small moments you lend as you read my words whether from visiting the page, WordPress newsfeed, or your email. Reading is a precious practice; and readers are precious people we all become through this work.

For your reading, much thanks.

I am so close, so so close, to my 100th follower, so I thought I’d do something different.

It’s not everyday I reach 100 followers. I have no agent. No marketing strategies in my pocket. No idea who to turn to after I finish this book I am working on.

100 followers. It means one hundred hearts beating, alive, reading, and reflecting.

To my 100th follower: I will write a poem or vignette for you. I will do this by perusing your blog and getting to know you through your written published words. I will leave my work on your comments section of your most recent post. 

(If only I can write one poem for each follower, I would. But, yes, Life always finds its way in and seeps into that space between the door and the floor.)

I’m no Maya Angelou, Lang Leav, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

It will not be a breathtaking piece of writing, but know that I will spend my breaths as I put together words for you, lovely reader and follower.

To all: I appreciate each one of you. Thank you for your time, precious readers.