Because writing can be therapeutic. Because Anne Lamott told me I could. Because I’m equal parts sad and angry right now. No, more angry than sad. I’m also a little envious, and I know that envy is bad. Really bad. But if you have a mother that you have a good or even decent relationship with, I’m a little jealous right now. I’m also frustrated. And at a loss. And sharing this if I get brave enough because WHY? I don’t know yet. I can find solidarity with others, maybe? Someone will have a magic answer on what to do? I AM THE DAUGHTER OF AN ADDICT. There. I said it. I never wish to share this. I never wish to say negative things about the woman who birthed me. And here we are . . . This addict had open-heart surgery on October 11 th . Oh, she nearly died. She had to be care-flighted from one hospital in Fort Worth to another in Dallas after a torn aorta was discovered. It was rough, and she ended up having a second surgery, but she
Perhaps I seek accountability, or an occasional word of encouragement. Or both. I am going to tell others of the process of my books coming to be. I always said as a little girl that one day I would be a writer. My one day is now.