“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.” ~ Don DeLillo
Terra. There, I said it. We can both end the charade of Zoeyjane.
I’m Terra, a 28-year old Vancouver single mom to 2-year old Isobel, the feistiest chunk of cute I’ve ever met.
Wait. About that. She’s not really Isobel, either, eh? She’s actually Zoë. (See what I did there?)
As you were.
I’ve recently started calling myself a writer. And it’s fine with me if you consider it laughable, because most of the time, I do, too, but I’m getting paid to write, so, yeah, I’m a writer.
I’m too skinny, I’ve got low self esteem, and I tend to 180 like one-woman home show of Cirque du Soleil. I am nothing if not flighty and inconstant – or more aptly put, I’m constantly flighty. Oh, and moody. I’m crazy, see.
I’m opinionated and honest, to the death of relationships, if need be. Half of the people that know me think I’m really, really nice; the other half is convinced that I’m a brazen bitch. They’re both right at least 50% of the time.
In amongst all of this negativity, there’s a teensy hippy emerging, who thinks on good days that the universe will make everything work out as it should, without a need to control. That everything happens for a reason and that reason is to show us what we’re capable of, to teach us of our own roles and dynamics and ultimately, how to balance without a safety line.
Whoa, right? I totally just space-cadeted out, writing it, too.
The point:
Minimalism. Peace. Acceptance. Growth. Maturity. Joy. Confidence. Success. Love and intimacy. All daily goals, wants, needs and reasons to breathe. Imagine how much oxygen I’ve missed out on, all this time, being something otherworldly.
This is my space to put it all on the table. I bitch, whine, gripe, smile, giggle, cry and bleed on the screen. Beware, cuz things are about to get really very real.
