Excerpt
You know, I use to consider myself a writer. The words would flow from my pen like waves on a shore. They would crash in and out and flow so surely and steadily. My readers would be fascinated by my depth, and mentors assured me I would be going somewhere with my talents. Here I am, set in a leather reclining office chair where my father once sat, alone in my apartment waiting for my absent boyfriend to finally show. I have this illness I like to call writers block. My words are never as articulate as they appear in my mind. When I do have a beautiful thought and rush home to put it into words, I see nonsense and mindless gibberish clustered over a page of disorganized thoughts. I can’t find my edge. I don’t know who I am supposed to be, where my place is in this world. Maybe it is my degree of disparity that causes me to attempt to express my thoughts