Saturday, October 19, 2013


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.


Matt said...

I don't comment every time, but I always enjoy your posts. I think you're a great writer and a long way from being hopeless.

meg said...

Oh, thank you, Matt! That really means a lot. :)

Marek O. said...

The self-sensoring is tough for sure. The back and forth tug between wanting to be completely open and uninhibited, for words to be only for the self, and also for them to exist in a public space where others can witness them. . . I feel that, too, and as such cannot write a word in my blog lately.

I agree with Matt! I much enjoy reading what you write. Good luck with your migration.