Today I wrote, created and ordered a children’s book. This is particularly funny because I don’t have children, nor do I want them. I decided long ago that I am far too cynical and selfish to ever bring a child into the world and though I am great with kids, I am not a parent, nor do I have that desire at all.
That being said, I have a faerie goddaughter who continually brings magic into the world with her fey imagination and made up stories. So today I tried my own hand at one and I believe at age 4, she’s better at the made up stories than I will ever be. Still, it’s quite the mental exercise to create a sing-song, rhyming story for kids and I’m glad I attempted it. I’m also glad it’s over.
Sometimes I write articles and places for publication online in the Atlas Obscura, a compendium of strange and unusual travels. Most of the time, they tend to be short blurbs but sometimes it includes longer articles and lists. I will likely be using this blog to expound upon those entries and to indulge the writer in me who likes more history and longer pieces but if you’re interested in more of the short and sweet, you can find me here too.
When I got home from Ireland, I told stories. I collected and edited pictures. I started a project and worked on stuff. In my dreams, I dreamt I was still there every single night, and in my waking hours – being there at all felt like a dream.
Today the fruits of my labors came to an end. I held my precious memories in my hand and wept like a little girl – suddenly and violently. I was surprised by my own reactions to something I had built – because I had been building it all this time and thinking it was helping me process. The finished result took my breath away and I was happy, sad, wistful, overjoyed and heartbroken all at once. With that onslaught came the realization that I have not processed a damn thing – and my heart is on my sleeve in a land far, far away.
Is é mo chroí in Éirinn
the West coast of Ireland