Be brave enough to break your own heart.

A musician sublet my apartment one summer in Burlington.

She said we had the same style.

I thought that was awesome, because she was touring the country singing american folk/country and wearing cowboy boots and her name was Charlie Faye and it sounded like she was basically living a dreamy life.

She stayed in 10 different towns for 1 month each

instead of bouncing around like a normal tour.  

 She wrote this song at my kitchen table:

Anyway, she posted a link to a website that had advice 

from a 40-something writer to her 20-something self.

These were my favs.

Pretty awesome.

And very appropriate right now.

(I did the bolding.)

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. 

These things are your becoming.

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I like to think I'm still in my becoming.