I have a procrastinating problem and an introvert’s shell.
I want to be an Emily Dickinson, if published at all then posthumously, unaware of what people say about what I say.
But I took the idealist’s leap and I spent an awful amount of money on a wonderful language arts degree and I’ll be darned if I don’t write. I had hoped they would, but nobody pays me to write, so I’ll be a commute and lunch break and late-Friday-night-half-asleep-with-a-half-cup-of-coffee writer. And writers are people who write – right? – not people who can write or who did once, before they grew up and worked overtime and ran out of money and time to think and breathe and rest.
For two years I thought of starting a blog. For four months I struggled with naming. I settled on la corbeille, the French word for trash can (to spell out the metaphor, the place where my writing usually resides) because it captures two of the biggest loves in my life – the French language and keeping things to myself.
This is my new corbeille. This is my first blog.