10pm in December

80 year old Clea definitely has pink hair.

She wants me to know that the only way she is ever going to get to sit in over a thousand beautiful hot springs around the world or live near Wharariki Beach in New Zealand is if I start writing ridiculously awesome novels right away that everyone wants to buy and read and that aren’t self involved but are personal and vulnerable and true reflections of the person I have grown to see.

She wants me to take care of my body so her hips stop fucking hurting. She wants me to go get to know the damn parks in Portland instead of bitching about there being no nature in this dank, lush, tree-laden city.

She wants me to know that I AM capable of making people feel things through the words I lay out on a page. She wants me to know that as soon as I believe that, I will write what I’ve always been looking for. It will fall out of me in a disgusting, messy and disorganized pile of typed pages, computer documents, and half-formed orchid-colored-penned ideas in a yellow gridded notebook.

And she’s really, really fucking proud of me for starting.