I haven’t been reading many blogs lately, except for the occasional travel blog (and most of them aren’t that great).

I haven’t been writing much lately, except for the occasional journal entry, or the occasional poem or social media update.

I still feel as if I’m meant to write. I feel that I do inspire people, more so verbally nowadays, and in private conversations than through blogging (obviously, because I’ve been MIA).

I’ve wanted to write a memoir for as long as I can remember – well, may for at least 20 years now.

I wanted to write about how I grew up during the crack epidemic, in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn. How I overcame teenage pregnancy, and an absent father who eventually passed of a drug-related stroke. I wanted to talk about how he was a man of many contradictions, but at his core a good human being (like we all are, from a very optimistic purview). I wanted to weave in themes about how this  male absenteeism generally affects black girls and women. I would have drawn some lines between different wars – the Vietnam war, emotional wars, drug wars, wars against teenage pregnancy – disease. I wanted to talk about how traumatic it was for me to lose my sister, my best friend. Grief. Anticipatory grief. Loss.

I wanted to talk about fear. Fear of losing people. Fear of people leaving. And relationships with men. (I still appreciate a good love story and I will always write about human and romantic relationships. I think, forever.) Even now, I can have a bit of a steely resolve. Men tell me I have “a wall.”

Have you ever had a story to tell and then changed your mind? Why? What was it about?

And so all of that. How those things shaped me into who I am. But I feel like those stories are less important now, and that the version of me that I’ve evolved into is more inspiring. Like I can do and say more – affect people more positively from where I stand now versus regurgitating the past. Although all of that has culminated into this very moment (me writing about not writing about my past, which I would not trade if I could).

I’ve felt compelled to write memoir for so long. I still will – but from the different perspective. Perhaps in a more unconventional format. Perhaps revealing revelations and beliefs that have served me, as well as the ones that have not. There won’t be anything finite about the book because as long as I am alive, I’m evolving. Growing. Expanding.

I think the clarity of my example speaks louder than any words I could ever utter. I’ve been the best example for my children and stuck to my morals. Still advancing. Seriously traveling. And still feeling like I’ve only just begun.

Have you ever had a story to tell and then changed your mind? Why? What was it about?

Essentially, I am the story, right?

I think what I’ve been doing on this hiatus is being more conscious of enjoying how the story unfolds and paying more attention to how I’m creating reality than giving a play by play to you all.  I didn’t leave a note that I’d be back, but I always will! Thank you.

If you were to tell a story right now, about an ongoing theme in your life, what would it be about?

Mine would definitely be about unconditional love. And the process I needed to go through to finally learn it. Wow. What a story. That’s the story I want to tell. I think in the span of this past year, I learned to love my father (seven years deceased), unconditionally through learning to love someone else unconditionally. Stay tuned.

If you have a favorite memoir, please drop a link.

Categories: Memoir, Random Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing

Tags: Absent Fathers, Advice, black girls, Black Women, Bloggers, blogging, Evolution, Family, Grief, Inspiration, Life, love, Poetry, Random, Reflections, Relationships, Writing