I’ve always been different. Always. I’ve had stories running around in my head that I had to put on paper. I have characters that I know better than I know myself, and I sometimes immerse myself into their worlds. Now I can say “it’s okay, I’m an author.” I tried saying that when I was younger, though, and I’d get strange looks.

No one really thinks that an elementary or a junior high kid is an author. I mean, these days… sure. Back then, no way. Either you get accepted by a publisher, or you shell out $5,000 for a small run of your book that you had to sell yourself. But I digress… back to the topic.

How strange I am and have always been.

I hated it, you know? Hated that I was more comfortable observing and learning quirks and traits and expressions than having an actual conversation. I hated that I could write for days and have a difficult time speaking short answers in small talk.

Don’t get me started on small talk. I HATE IT. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

But then… this thing happened. I ran into someone that I’d known from before and noticed that she’d had a baby. We started talking, and… I could talk. I could be myself. She accepted that I walked a different path, because so did she.

She introduced me to music that somehow made my life make sense.

She taught me that being myself was my superpower.

I’m an author. I’m that one writer chick. I’m the weird little wallflower who will run into a mosh pit for the hell of it, or throw glitter and wish everyone a blessed day.

I let my freak flag, if that’s what you want to call it, fly, and it has not only attracted my tribe, but has given me the confidence and the life I love.

If you’re reading this, Rose… thank you for saving me.

Xoxo
Carlie ????????‍♀️