Author: Jackie Pick

Jackie Pick is a former teacher and current writer living in the Chicago area. She is a contributing author to multiple anthologies, including Multiples Illuminated, So Glad They Told Me: Women Get Real about Motherhood, Here in the Middle, as well as the and the literary magazines The Sun and Selfish. She received Honorable Mention from the Mark Twain House and Museum for her entry in the Royal Nonesuch Humor Writing Competition. Jackie is a contributing writer at Humor Outcasts, and her essays have been featured on various online sites including Mamalode, The HerStories Project, and Scary Mommy. A graduate of the University of Chicago and Northwestern University, Jackie is co-creator and co-writer of the award-winning short film Fixed Up, and a proud member of the 2017 Chicago cast of Listen To Your Mother.

The Start, or I, I, I.

My words are stuck somewhere, perhaps hidden under some recipes and images of old wooly rugs up there in the noggin.

Writing was once a fluid process for me;  now faded thoughts skip around with muted impact, like writing with an old pen.  I try to shake myself into form, hoping a burst of freshness and clarity will return.  I’m trying to Febreze my brain. 

I’m not discouraged or scared.  I’m impatient, waiting for the fluidity to come back, for the ideas to craft themselves into sentences and essays and points.  I miss having a point.  I miss the feeling of writing and knowing an enjoyable destination lies ahead.  I look forward to its return with almost as much jubilance with which I look forward to Cadbury Eggs every spring.

I’ve been writing one essay.  I’ve rewritten it, starting from scratch, seven times.   Draft Number Seven needs loving care.  I need to stop beating it into submission and let it be what it is.  It’s ok.  It’s cutesy.  It hints at something.

I know I must woman up, jump in, and write about my demons, face them, give them a name, vanquish them or at least learn to live coexist uncomfortably with them.

I must write for myself and not offer some distorted fun house reflection of myself to you.  The Honest can be ugly.  However, the Honesy Ugly can be bonding and joyous and funny and can be a lifeline to one another.  At least that is what I keep telling myself as I dance around shadows of a post about some of my more…unsavory?  unholy?  unbounded? truths.

I also know that to get The Project to peek it’s fuzzy nose out from underground and check for sunlight, I need to focus on others.  My thoughts stir (albeit with tangy, hot Savannah summer laziness) when I am completely mothering.  I am currently looking for an organization who would like a few hours of my time.  That, in and of itself, is turning into quite The Thing With Six Thousand Outstretched Hands…more on that down the road.

I will keep working on that first essay, push it out, let it go.  Others will line up behind it and, with this other one having slicked up the slide, should come out slightly less painfully.

If it helps, pie is mentioned.  Pie heals.

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