Postcards from the Unthinkable, Vol. 5

I wrote a book this afternoon.

Eight chapters and illustrations. It's been read by several people already. Of course, I have not yet read it myself. Rules of the class. It's been a surrealistic week. 

I haven't measured the volume of my writing. Or gotten its measure. I don't know if any of it is any good. Haven't read any of that work either. 

We've written several stories every day. There must be an anthology in my notebook, which is nearly full with story notes, stories, cartoons, and comics. It looks a little like a Linda Barry book, a wacky collection of writing, notes, cartoons and comics, questions, answers, and assorted miscellany.

After class today there was a bonus session on expository writing. Imagine for a moment, a cartoonist teaches how to approach academic and expository writing. I have the beginnings of a new project completed. It's a project that's had more false starts than I care to count. Apparently, I've been thinking too much. 

How did I accomplish this great feat, you might ask? With a word, a question, and a photograph. Someone completely unrelated to my project provided the question. A person I've never met provided the photo. The word is mine.


Remind me someday to tell you how it all came together.

There's another morning of class before this extraordinary workshop concludes. As I sit here thinking about life after Linda, I honestly can't imagine it. It's been absolutely life changing. I can understand why people come back year after year. I can understand why the workshop sells out before the catalog is mailed in the spring. I'm pretty sure it sells out within 72 hours of being posted and open for registration. It may sell out even faster than that.

On a completely unrelated topic, my daughter turned 30 today.

I'm still taking it in.

It's the first of her birthdays that I haven't actually spoken with her. The cell coverage here is spotty, and when I can get service there's only one bar. I've been in class and she's been at work. I hope to be able to speak with her before the clock strikes midnight, but I'm not holding my breath. 

I sent her a card and wrote her some long text messages with some beautiful memories I have of her birth and of birthdays over the years. That's the good thing about having a mom who writes. She writes. And litters your way with artifacts you can pick up. They begin to tell a story, and you discover you are holding a moment in your hand.

One you can hold forever.






The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.