Charlotte always wanted to be bulimic—learned the word in seventh grade when her mom found mason jars full of vomit in her older sister’s closet. Back then, Charlotte thought it was disgusting. Now at thirty-seven, she was jealous—jealous of Vicky’s sensitive gag reflex and jealous that Vicky mastered binge and purge.

One of the reasons I write fiction—especially the kind that edges into darker, more Gothic territory—is because stories give us a safe place to sit with things we don’t always talk about out loud. Trauma, for example, is one of those threads that weaves through real life whether we invite it in or not.

I've been thinking a lot about this post and where to start. In fact, I've written and deleted more words than I can count on this post alone--don't even ask how many hundreds of PAGES I've discarded over the last few years! I want to share my writing journey with you (whoever you are) but doubt creeps in. Does anyone care? Where do I begin? If I'm just beginning, do I really have anything to share. Then I realized something. This post isn't for you as much as it is for me...