Bowie Inspired

I’ve been stuck. I’ve been in this writing rut-the same place I always get it. The home stretch. The finishing bits. The edits.


I’ve been questioning every decision I’ve made. Balancing on the words that are fiction versus the non fiction. Where am I finding honesty and where I am rewriting history?

Are these motives strong enough-just because they really happened? Will this be understood? What am I doing?

And then, early this morning on a routine Facebook check I got the news,  David Bowie passed away.

David Bowie, electric and unapologetic and true, always true to himself as an artist. No matter the critics, cynics, people who didn’t understand, thought he was too much….

And I swear it all clicked.

This is MY work. MY name. My blood in every word, every hour, every emotion, every turn on the page that was blank before we met. I don’t need to write for censors, for people who don’t “get it” out of fear they won’t like it. It doesn’t matter.

If I’m writing for the truth. Then I have to remain true.

I had a play pulled last year and one of the inciting reasons was the powers that be didn’t think it was “finished”-when I knew all along that the loudest mouth just didn’t like it.

And I questioned everything. Whats wrong with the script, with me as a writer, with me as a person, I’m never writing a script again–and on and on. Swirling around in that rejection that can absolutely kill an artist at their core.

I was supposed to make it nicer, more main stream, less “raunchy”, more like the other play. The play with all the women, none of the cursing, and all the audience. I was supposed to water it down and still stand by it like it was mine.

I’d rather die.

Can you imagine people who din’t respect your work  telling you what to do with your work? *Currently laughing* and then you change it to make them happy?

I jumped back into the edits this morning-feeling more resolved and determined as ever to remain real to my aesthetic and my vision for MY body of work.

There is no one in control here but me.  There is no one I’m writing for but me.


This is what I leave behind to my children and grandchildren–this is how you build history and legacy. And it’s never by fitting in someone else’s status quo. And somewhere-I started wanting to do that. Wanting to assimilate. Wanting to be one of the masses–because, really, it does make life “easier”–when it comes to the people who ultimately don’t matter anyway-

I’m digressing. The point is-fuck that.


Thank you for the reminder and the legacy. I’ve always been more David Bowie than Betty Crocker, and regardless of how other people feel, it’s been time to remember that.

Off writing,


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