2019 was a weird year. I accomplished a lot of things and then had to sit with that terrible feeling you get when you've finally done a thing and it's just...a thing that you did now.  There's no more fuel in the tank or direction for the ship.  So I've spent the last part of the year just trying to rebuild the fire.

I released a lot of new zines: DIY artist retreat, All My Friends and I Want To Talk About Are Autumn Leaves (in paper form) and I Forget Who I Am.  

I submitted zero poems or stories for publication. 

Woof. I'm writing from the dining room of our new house, still 90% boxes, over-caffeinated because we got too excited to try the builtin coffee maker. I can't find my notes. So let's do this.

After seven years of my new employment life, here's what's going on in my head:

I've noticed a pattern of forgetfulness around writing--I forget how many poems I've written, so when I set out to write 100, I write 104 instead. The bio in my second book of poems said it was my first book of poems.  When people ask me what I've been writing, I just flat can't remember. And so the void becomes the story.  

I don't like that story, so I'm rewriting it.