Remember when leaving Instagram and spending more time on WordPress would improve my writing? Wasn’t that such a sweet, innocent time?

Writing does not feel better. Words do not flow. I read posts by my writer friends and want to throw my laptop out of my window because WHY CAN’T I DO THAT.

Now that I’m done whining…

Let me admit that I do not read. Or write as much as I should. I made Sunday my “writing day” and turned it into a performance. See me? Sitting in this coffee shop on a Sunday morning? I take artful photos, post my little ten-sentence diatribe, and pat myself on the back. Look! I carved out time for my craft. Rub my head and call me a good girl.


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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

One thought on “BLEH.”

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