Birthdays get weird when you grow up. It’s a really weird mix of wanting the attention, just for a little bit, and then — personally — feeling like you haven’t done anything to deserve it.
It’s nice to be celebrated, but it also feels awkward. Maybe it’s just that I don’t like birthdays anymore; I don’t like acknowledging I’m older, that the fairytales and imaginings are so far off. I don’t like knowing that it’s another year I have to prioritize course assignments and work projects over the God-dreams in my heart, over the novels I want to write and the pretties that my hands ache to create.
I’m typing for Lindsey right now — her wrists have been acting up, so she turned to handwriting. And as I type up the words she wrote in a beautiful leather-bound journal, my heart is whispering write your own stories because I want so badly to get them out into the world.
It’s not something I talk about much anymore.
But I do — I want to write. I want to publish. I want to sell my novels and help Lindsey design deluxe editions of our work. I want to keep working for Ever Ink, and I want to sell the books published by Ever Ink in that coffee shop I want to open in my someday.
But someday feels far off lately.