I think I call it "floofy" writing because it is not true. There isn't much depth to what I've been writing. I have also been censoring myself because I know who reads my blog. Hey, everyone, stop reading my blog so I can actually write what I want. I joke. My jokes fall flat. My writing is floofy, but also flat.
What I really want to write about is place. A sense of home that I haven't known for a long time. I want to write about security and the lack of it. I want to write about my neighbor's house burning down and how I wished I could have witnessed it from the top of their maple tree I used to climb. I want to write about my surrogate family and the crush I had on the oldest child and how their toaster used to catch on fire. I want to write about the mechanics of a family. I want to write about hobbies being shields and shields being nothing more than decoration. I want my writing to take its clothes off.
To expose myself is to exhale. Should I stick a fork in whatever's been cooking in my soul to see if it's done? Except it's not a cake. It's a pizza. Pizza tastes good frozen, too. And leftover pizza might just be better than when it's fresh. My soul is a pizza.
Keep writing, Meghan. You aren't hopeless.