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I am a writer.

15 Apr

I’m slowly floating down from cloud nine.

Three days since the AWP (Association of Writers & Writing Programs) conference in Minneapolis, and I sit in my local coffee shop distracted by the long thoughts that still linger forefront in my mind, thoughts prompted by the many panels, readings, overheard conversations, and hotel-room discussions I had during the three-day event.

It’s taken some time for me to accept, and then proclaim, this tagline to my name: Ellee, writer. The threat of discovery that I didn’t qualify would somehow be too much to bear, too much to mourn. I’ve carried this word around with me, secretly, since I was a child, thinking about what it means and wanting so badly to find my own place in it. But I never considered what it meant to fit in, to “qualify,” to be allowed membership in a professional group of word artists. For a few years now, I’ve tentatively put on the elevated label — adding it to my resume, my LinkedIn profile — without considering why I’m so scared to claim it.

But, last weekend at AWP, while I nervously zig-zagged through the huge book fair tables with their magazines, paperbacks, journals, bookmarks, magnets, and t-shirts, I had an epiphany: Writers are not special. They don’t occupy some strange intellectual space that requires years of tutelage in their lingo and set of rules. They are simply word lovers, word givers. They connect through the effort they put into finding just the right collection of letters that makes sense of their particular view. It takes hard work, not specialness.

I had to introduce myself to so many strangers, who were gracious and generous with my nerves and my apologetic explanations of what I do. People were interested in what I had to say. They wanted to know more about my ideas. They connected with they way I see the world. And I quickly found myself rooted in this varied community of political views, religious associations, artistic aesthetics, modes of communication, that are all connected through words.

I realized, I am also a word lover, a word giver. I, too, connect through the effort of finding just the right word. I, too, work hard. I, too, am a writer.

Read me.


8 Jul

Lately, I’ve been sorting through past traumas like forgotten boxes in the attic — complete with overwhelming reminiscence that can often be followed by sudden weeping, dust from the trauma floating in the darkened air around me. And, like the stirred air, I am unsettled.

Looking at the past me, watching her again face these experiences that she was not ready for, I want to explain things. I want her to know the things she didn’t understand. I want to redefine the very meaning of the words she clung to — phrases she passionately scribbled in journals and scraps of paper stored in an old metal suitcase. In the midst of these recent moments, as I try to help the younger version of myself finally rest into the past where she belongs, I realize I still need to redefine the words I use to shape my life now.







All of this makes me feel detached. Wandering. Searching again for some explanation for the beauty and ugliness around me. And inside of me.

So I sit and try to organize positive and negative space, these symbols that represent the meaning I am trying to simultaneously give and discover. The shape of each letter, the structure of the sentence, the placement of a comma — all of it changes the meaning. Perhaps this tiny curved line, like a dislodged and discarded eyelash that has floated down to the page, will interject just the right pause to accentuate the word before — what is that word trying to say? what is it trying to connect to? how is it representing me? how is it representing anything? — all of these questions have been circling around me every time I try to write.

Yet, though I feel a bit lost in all of this, I do find answers as I go. At least, enough answers to not stop, to keep going, keep writing, keep searching — all in the same motions: My small fingers flitting over the keys, the bottoms of my palms sticky against the smooth surface they rest upon, my eyes gliding back and forth over the clear black words I’ve just written and the unseen outline of the words I have yet to write.

The words are crowded now, but they bump against each other inside of me, sharpening some and — thankfully, for the tired and overwhelmed 17-year-old me — softening others.

Someday I’ll figure out what I’m trying to say.

Defined connection.

30 Jan


noun \kə-ˈnek-shən\

1) Something that joins or connects two or more things.

2) The act of connecting two or more things or the state of being connected.

3) A situation in which two or more things have the same cause, origin, goal, etc.


In a way, I am a connection. Without me, certain introductions would not have been made – or broken. Certain ideas would not have become product. I have joined “two or more things” simply by my curiosity. Simply by my presence.

In this way, I have been a connector. The offspring of creator. A found-object artist. I asked questions and gave answers. I stepped in and shied away. And those decisions influenced a “state of being connected.”

My brother and I have the same parents. We have the same list of childhood addresses that trail across the nation. We share memories of holidays, stupid jokes, friends. We shared the same songs — writing lyrics simultaneously. And yet, we aren’t wholly connected. Even in the past reminiscence, often we have differing viewpoints — like separate movie screens focused on opposite frames within the same scene.

Connection, to me, is illusive. It’s layered — like a bolt of gauzy cloth. I can see every layer, but cannot differentiate them. They are connected, yet separate. And I am wrapped up in it all.

As a sensitive soul and an abstract mind, I long for connection. For definition in connection. For connecting to tell me who I am, what I am worth.

My memory lurches forward, “I remember being there,” I say. What I mean is, I can see it in my mind. Memory based on visuals. But I connect to the emotion, the thought, the idea of the memory. It is unfocused and complex. And it often builds a picture of my past-life that is inaccurate. My mind building within the blank spaces — an innate desire to smooth out the gauzy fabric of my mind, to create a foundation structured on a rich black timeline, to connect myself back together again.

And even as I reach back, to re-connect, to rediscover old connections that rationalized reality then, I am still anchored in this moment: My fingers touching the smooth plastic keys, my wrists resting on the edge of the computer, my mouth moving slightly with the words.

Even now, I am still connecting.

On dreams and reality.

15 Jan

I’ve always had a strange dream life. Nightmares mostly. Some might even call them “night terrors.” But even with the rare good dreams, came wild imaginings drawn across a mental plane that is only loosely attached to reality. Adventures with movie-like plots, where I began as a young and agile female character racing through darkened city streets on a mission of unmeasurable importance, to a wizened male character looking through a bright window at the peaceful countryside.

Once, during a dream where I was playing myself, I stood in the downstairs portion of my two-level apartment — the squared-off twisting staircase behind me, my large square mirror to my side — and looked around the room. “I’m dreaming,” I said, self-aware. So I woke up, walked downstairs, peeked in the mirror and realized with shock, “I’m dreaming.” So I woke up, walked downstairs, scanned the room and glanced at my reflection and thought, I’m still dreaming. Panic filled my sleep and I ran back upstairs to my bed to wake up.

So, I woke up and raced downstairs to see if I was awake. I leaned forward at the bottom of the staircase, my hand resting possessively on the little wooden crown at the end of the railing, and searched the room. My heart began to slow. I looked in the mirror. I breathed deeply. I must be awake now, I thought with comfort. I let go of the railing and turned to go back upstairs. A small gold and glass lamp twinkled halfway across the room to my left. I paused. Something wasn’t right. I don’t remember that lamp. And I certainly don’t remember it resting on the ceiling, with its white cord trailing along the popcorn crumbs as though gravity were reversed somewhere above my head — a mirror image. “I’m still dreaming!” I said, my mouth filling with a yell.

I sat up in bed, panting. My dog — a mini, grey and white thing that I allowed to sleep under the covers with me — snorted and moved away. I pinched my arm (seriously). I swallowed. I listened. And that’s when I knew I was finally awake.

The sound of reality is a layered and complex orchestra of noisemakers at varying distances, which dance with the tingling pressurized ring in my ears and the thoughts that are so subconscious I’m always nervous I’ve said them out-loud. My dreams, though sometimes filled with screams and explosions, are virtually soundless — save for one single tone, voice, focus. There is no complexity amidst the confusion and emotion. There are no layers that paint an invisible, textured canvas over the scene played out in front of me.

As I sat up, breathlessly deciding on reality, my dog settled in and began to snore immediately. A lone car pressed its tires against the paved country road just outside. The elderly wood and brick house resettled in the night around me. The wind tickled the loose glass in the window frames. And my heart — which was still steadily thumping — banged against the bones in my head and chest.

I’m awake, I thought, laying back down to sleep.


3 Jan

The New Year whispered it’s chilly speech, leaving a crust of snow over everything outside my windows. I’d been telling people for weeks just how much I love snow, the cold, and basically anything to do with layering knitted garments before heading outdoors. But today, as I shivered under my shirts, sweater, coat, scarf, hat, gloves, I mumbled “It’s too cold,” my breath billowing out in a white fog in front of me before I closed my stinging eyes.

It’s strange how I long for the clear cold nights during the Ohio summer days that last into humid 9 p.m. sunsets over the Appalachian hills. It’s funny how I dream of stretching out in bare legs and arms, out behind my duplex apartment soaking up the sun, while I duck even deeper into my knobby knitted scarf. Apparently I am satisfied with every season for about 4 to 6 weeks at a time.

I’ve always been that way. I’m the straight-haired girl who wants curls. The East Coast born, who has Oregon plotted as her next move. The word-nerd who often just wants to drift off from the concrete ties of language and into an abstract world.

This quirk in my personality has brought me through more than 5 majors for my undergraduate degree. It’s drawn me to homes in more than a few states, house-hopping every year or two (or less). And I now have a scrolling photo album of my many hair transformations.

Another year has drifted by, another glossy page on my calendar turned, and it makes me think about the near future. I tried making resolutions once, years ago, and quickly realized that I only end up with guilt in July. But this year — 2014 — my thirty-third year of life on this earth, I do have one resolution. One that I know I won’t fail to maintain. One that won’t leave me with self-reproach:

I will embrace my need for adventure and change. I will celebrate the boredom — like a shoreline seen in the distance, my boat soon to discover. I will know that this often burdensome need will only create a life worth looking back at — a life filled with awe and effort, inspiring people and difficult challenges. A life that I would have sincerely lived. And I will feel satisfied at last with that.

I have a black thumb.

5 Oct

To get to the root of it, you have to dig. Which requires you to get down in the earth, on your hands and knees, back aching and fingernails ruined. Even more unpleasant if you weren’t planning on this level of gardening today.

People tell me I’m very self-aware. They tell me I really know who I am. And apparently that’s great. What they don’t know is that the root of me is still stuck in the ground. I’m still buried beneath the public relations filter that we all walk around with: Like me. Think I’m smart. Support my choices. They hear me talking honestly about my emotions or traumatic experiences and they think I’m so real.

The trouble starts when I begin to like that perception of me – and even to depend on it. I stop gardening. I stop digging.

Today I started to dig again. And I’m not very pleased with what I’m unearthing. It’s a little too honest to fit into my schedule right now. A little too messy – covered in dirt long undisturbed. But here I am. And here I choose to be, working in the garden, trying to cultivate a real life. I’m exhausted and aching, but I’ve managed to face it this time: the work of it.

I will be grieving the loss of parts of me, which I’ve found rotting just below the surface. And I will be extremely conscious of my black thumb, but I am determined to bear good fruit. Unfortunately, that requires some Saturday afternoons spent sweating just inches above the earth, being honest again. Digging into life again.

It starts by planting an awkward blog-seed into cyberspace.

Four miles down, one billion to go.

26 Aug

For the first time since major surgery, I ran four miles without stopping. This was a significant milestone for me {pun intended}.

I celebrate these small victories of health with mini-parties. If anyone is around, they receive the gift of my wide grin and an endless stream of words explaining to them the awesomeness of my run. If they’re lucky, there is also a vigorous high-five involved. But often, after these moments of effort and focus toward a specific goal, I am alone. Unlacing my shoes, stripping of my socks, walking with sweaty tip-toes across the cream-colored carpet, and still talking out loud a half-octave higher.

Running changed my body, my health. It changed my lingo (hello, farleks and PR). Eight years ago, it changed my perspective.

With these milestones I built a road. A smooth path to remember moments of strength and sweat and rhythmic determination. And miles. Miles and miles and miles. And every time I return from this road, I celebrate the miles I have left to go. Which suddenly seemed odd today, when I looked at how many rows were left in the database, how many to-do items were left on my list, how many months until I graduate. Too many, I thought.

Yet, after running another four miles last night, I considered how many miles I have left until I simply can’t run anymore.

Not enough, I said out loud. With a wide grin.


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