I Write About Sex — To Write About Life
I write for presence, peace, balance, and to find the beauty in my life. For mental health and clarity, perspective and some semblence of productivity.
I’ve loved writing for as long as I can remember. Long before I understood sex and long before I met Jack. It was my outlet as a child, my way to make sense of the world and find peace and order in all this chaos that is life.
It was a nerdy hobby in high school. Navigating the teenage social scene was awkward for me, but dialing into AOL to craft a website and related stories from the point of view of a fictional version of me felt effortless. I told stories, some based on truth. I was featured in a German rail magazine. I made online friends, exchanging daily emails. But no one I knew in real life ever read those stories, and those Geocities websites are long gone.
Being a natural-born writer made academics easy for me. I was “that girl,” the one who got a 4.0 on the first draft of every essay, even in the courses where the professors would try to scare us by proudly proclaiming that they never gave perfect scores. I earned praise and scholarships, and I didn’t even have to apply for a job at the college writing center — they extended the offer within weeks of my freshman orientation.
