i’m writing a book. well, i’ve been writing a book… a couple of books actually. mostly non-fiction and one fictional novel at the moment.

it’s an interesting experience, writing a book. it’s an interesting experience just saying that “i’m writing a book.”

but i’m enjoying it thus far. taking things step-by-step and treading lightly into this unknown territory. it’s fascinating and terrifying and wonderful all at the same time… and bound in leather with a hard cover.

paul told me a few months ago that he always knew i would write about my rape. and i think only he, my fantastic partner who has been with me through the best and worst of times, could share that with me and know that i truly believe him. because once he said, “i always knew that someday you would write about it,” i took a step back and nodded my head.

i think somewhere inside me i always knew i would too.

and so i’m at this beautifully vulnerable place in my writing where i am opening my mind to new ideas and new ways of sharing myself, my survivorship, my story… that continues to manifest itself in ink, both literally and figuratively.

my newest addition

paul’s birth tree, the rowan tree, standing for sensitivity and protection finally found its spot on my arm.

i know this new endeavor of mine will be a lengthy process. i know i am not a patient person. but i am encouraged. this has been 9 years in the making.

so i sent off the first three chapters of my book to an incredible woman who i am hoping i can soon say is my agent. with nervous fingers, i typed my email to her, clicked “attach,” and then pressed “send.”

and now excuse me while i wet my pants and sweat profusely in anticipation of what is to come… as my story continues…