God, I love my story. I love all of them. I think it’s a total mess - they all are - and it’ll be hell to figure them out, but it’s mine, and it’s real, and I made it, and it exists because of me. They all exist because I allowed them to. And I’ll be damned if it all disappears before I’ve had a chance to breathe life into people who are more real to me than anything, dealing with issues that matter, and doing the things that I never get to. These people are brilliant, and brave, and messed up, and they’re real.
Looking at my notebooks, at all of those pages filled up with their words and their lives and their stories, makes me so happy and so proud. I can feel closer to them just by reading those words and writing them.
things my parents sometimes don’t understand