Hey stranger. It’s been a while.

I won’t apologize for the absence, because it was necessary. I feel like I’ve been everywhere and nowhere. I spent the first half of 2017 in a dozen museums in London, the middle bit in a torrential downpour in Berlin, and the last half walking a thousand miles in New York. I’ve been making a hundred lesson plans. I’ve been eating a frankly nauseating amount of lemon drops. I’ve been laughing, and laughing, and laughing. That’s been my favorite part: I spent a lot of 2017 alone, but in an unexpected twist of events, I also spent a lot of it with newfound friends, who don’t mind my snort when I cackle, or how loudly (or creepily) I talk in my sleep.

And I’ve been relearning how to write, really.

For the longest time, I just couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing worth listening to, at least. All the poems sounded the same; all the short stories had the same endings. Any letter I tried to write to anyone or anything was just me finding different ways to say the same things. A lot of that was “I miss you.” A lot of it was “screw you.” A lot of it was “what do I do now.”

What do I do now?

One of my favorite writers just happens to be my best friend. Her name is Lily, (and this is her book), and when she speaks, and writes, it sounds like music. There is a rhythm to the way her mind works and her words flow that is breathtaking and awe-inspiring, and it makes me want to create. One night, alone in the dorm, I finally crumpled up all the half-finished letters and half-assed poems, sat myself down, and asked myself, “What is the story you want to tell to Lily?”

I wrote a story about a girl saving a forest from a fire only to bring a flood that drowned the earth. And I’m proud of it; a feeling I haven’t felt towards my own writing in a long, long, long time. I cannot wait to share that one. I started writing about magic, and it’s been a bit like I’m going back to my roots; writing about witches, and ghosts, and God.

I’m going to dare myself to share these words. No more fear. No more waiting. Share London, where the pavement never dried even when the sun was shining, where the water tasted like powdered sugar, and I spent a dozen Thursdays at the ballet, and the orchestra, and watching bootleg musicals into the early hours of the morning. I have never sang as loudly as I did in London. I will share Berlin, a city of dust and memories and bitter sadness and a single pair of shoes. And I will share New York, as I relearn her curves and edges that she lost and gained in my absence. America seems so much bigger now, after leaving behind the tiny hallways and showers and trains of Europe. When I stepped off the plane, the air in Illinois tasted clean and bright as pop rocks. It took all my strength not to kneel on the asphalt of the airport parking lot and press my forehead to the dirt. After months on islands, the cornfield sea shone like gold.

It hasn’t all been good, or happy, and I will share that too. I’ve been struggling with some things that need to face the light, or that I need to hold accountable. And I lost touch with someone I didn’t (and don’t) want to lose touch with. I am deeply sorry for that. I messed up. But I refuse to stop hoping that we can rebuild, and be stronger because of it.

I don’t really know what I did to deserve so many beautiful people giving me second chance after second chance after second chance. I don’t know how I got so lucky as to have my heroes be my peers.

Have patience with me. I am learning how to recognize the sound of my own voice.

All my heart, always.

xx,
Meg

P.S., I truly cannot recommend enough for you to get Lily’s book. You can even find me in some of the poems. (How I got so lucky, I’ll never know, never know, never know.)

Photo taken at Camley Street Natural Park in London, which I loved to the point of wordlessness