“I can lose myself without anxiety because you keep me. This book is not narrative. It is not discourse. It is a poetic animal machine…” Helene Cixous, Stigmata
I am 31. And I am writing a novel. The words create their own space. They pour from me, pour and scatter. Overflow.
I am 31, an insomniac whose days start early and whose nights never seem to end.
Powered by coffee and thin air, I pour myself out into the world in search of a good word and a great story.
I am a writer, teacher, and artist. I am an aspiring novelist, aspiring ski and mountain bike goddess, and constant dreamer.
I teach, I write, I imagine. And I am writing a novel.
I recently wandered into the Elk Mountains of Colorado. To write. To simplify and then inspire the life within and without me.
This blog chronicles the end road, tracing the stories kept within the vertical walls of Crested Butte – a small town of winter enthusiasts carved into a valley, surrounded by elegant granite sheets masked in snow and wildflowers. This blog marks the end of one road and the beginning of another. It describes and defines my journey through language as I strive to make sense of both memory and imagination and translate it into fiction.
What lies at the end road?
One hell of a story.