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The torture of a writer's brain.

The torture of a writer's brain.

Maybe it's because I'm a writer and I notice everything. 

I notice the smallest of things and I pay attention to little details and they weave their way into my heart and my brain and get permanently knotted inside them. 

Like the size and shape of his hands and the exact roughness of them totally countered by their gentleness. The way they are so strong and capable, covered in scratches and marks, but could touch me softly and gently like they'd never made a fist before. Like the spot behind his left ear that I liked to kiss where the skin knots up into a gnarled little thick red patch from all the years of sitting in the drivers seat of a car. Like how when he smiles at his kids it starts as a sparkle in his eyes that slowly gets bigger as it crosses his cheeks and then passes down to his mouth. And how I have a photo of him looking at me with the exact same soul encompassing smile. Or the way his voice sounds when it hits the exact halfway point between a whisper and actual talking, that dampened deep-from-his-throat voice that always meant he was going to say something sweet, something important, something sexy, or all three. 

This is why the writer's soul is a tortured one. The same ability to observe and hang on to every detail that allows us to write things that capture the interest of all kinds of people is the one that causes us to be overwhelmed by information in a way that makes our minds hard to handle. I would trade my writer's mind for one that is easier for people to love but that is not what was meant for me. I can't turn it off and so I make the most of it.

I’m not ready to drive down that driveway yet.

I’m not ready to drive down that driveway yet.

When you just can't Christmas.

When you just can't Christmas.