Day one. A letter to myself three years ago.

We were purposeless, devoid of trust and with a pretty tenuous hold on sanity. We had lost something that will never come back. That’s going to get easier to handle, as long as you have no illusions about that.

Life isn’t one of those tourist places where someone reminds you to take all your belongings with your upon exiting the ride. You don’t have to keep everything you came with, or even the things you picked up along the way (that includes relationships) but that doesn’t make it any more or less a ride.

I see now how you’d forgotten how to enjoy yourself a bit. I don’t blame you. 40 was looming and you’d still not done the thing. I’m sure by your reckoning I’ve still not done the thing, but honey, chill the fuck out. You’re still so locked into the very prevalent reality of when I have… then I will… Even when you think it’s not so? It’s so.

I’m not going to say anything to deter you from going to school though it will result in some trauma and you will not end up as a mechanic making large cash and surfing every year. It will result in a sense of accomplishment that comes from finishing something. I doesn’t sound huge, but it is. That eye on the prize mantra you’re going to inhale and exhale all day long to get through the bullshit is totally appropriate, but don’t get hung up on what you think the prize is.

And you know it already, but once you leave Powell River, you won’t be going back any time soon. A sanctuary at the end of the road is just a fancy way of describing a place to hide.

You’ve not learned to push yourself yet, and sometimes what feels like going backward is a actually forward movement. Ymir is the most home you’ve ever known and the girl going back there is not the one who left. You’ve proved you’re not an alcoholic and you’ll continue to discover how little your creativity is dependent on outside influences. It’s here. It’s always been. It doesn’t matter the geography, the view, the chair (though we need a better chair), the prompt, too much time, too little. Staying frustrated because of a perceived lack of ability is pointless.

I’m going to publish a book soon. I applied for a grant, which might seem arrogant since I’ve not written the book yet, but sometimes a kick in the pants and accountability is what’s needed. I know you’ll consider a published book to be the thing, the arrival point, but it’s just part of the ride.

I know how unpalatable it is for you to say it out loud, but I’m a writer. I take full responsibility for everything that goes with admitting that. You’re not ready to. That’s okay. I am.