I recently got a small nugget of advice from a Southern femme writer whose work I greatly admire. "Give yourself fifteen minutes a day," she said, "to write whatever you want to write."
It was simple advice, brilliant almost in it's simplicity. I agreed that it was exactly the sort of thing I needed to make myself do. She stopped me. "It's not a chore. It's a gift you give yourself. It's a promise that no matter what else has to get done in the day, you give yourself that little piece of time to do the work that matters to you." Okay, that second part is probably not an exact quote, but the sentiment was loud and clear.
I sat in her office, mulling this over along with what I would undertake as my final project in "Feminist Narratives," my first foray into graduate work in nearly ten years. (Ack, that makes me feel old.) Books were everywhere, lined up and stacked on every available surface. I fidgeted. I tried not to fawn.
She also told me I had great talent as a writer. Let me tell you, if you are a Southern girl and a femme who dreams of being a writer, it doesn't get much better than Minnie Bruce Pratt telling you that you have great talent as a writer. Of course, she also said that I needed to figure out if I had something to say.
Aye, there's the rub.
Undeterred, I've decided to embark on an exploration of self and sex and love and gender and all of those things that make life worthwhile. I'll probably talk about food, too, as it figures very prominently in my life. Unlike my more restrained alter ego, the Literate Baker, I set no rules and make no promises. I may, in fact, find myself talking only to myself. And while I hope that won't be the case, I won't mind if it is.
I am a femme on a journey. Or a mission. Or something. Something interesting, and with lots of words. A most exciting prospect.
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