I took the train to the South Station and had to snag a photo as I love the architecture of it:

It was damn cold so although I’d planned to walk the greenway to the North End neighborhood I swerved into downtown to stave off the bitey wind. It worked! And I saw some cool buildings:

One of my favorite things is to generally know where I’m headed but wander as things catch my eye and that’s what I did this whole day.

I’d planned to purchase a couple of things if I could find what I liked that fit my budget: a warm stocking cap with something Boston on it, leather travel shoes, and a Harvard t-shirt. I walked through Fanueil Hall but didn’t see anything I loved. Outside there were stores lining a cobblestone square. I wandered into a store called Wicked Dog and immediately bonded with the young woman working there. I bought a hat (purple! on clearance!) but when I left the wind had died and the sun had come out.

Within a half hour I’d gone from freezing to sweating so I haven’t actually worn the purple hat yet. I began to keep my eyes open for the Harvard t-shirt. I found one and changed right inside the shop when the cashier gave me permission. So yeah there’s security footage of me doing that in a North End store. Yikes!

I’d finally made it to the Italian neighborhood called the North End. I had not looked up where I “should” go but in my wandering happened on Mike’s. When I saw the counters stacked with donuts, old school building, and the no-nonsense Italian women behind the counter I knew I was in a good place. Of course it is cash only. A place like this does not want your dumb plastic but luckily I had some. I traded my five dollar bill for a Boston Creme then stood in the corner to inhale it. No tables, no coffee, get your doughnut and stand. I’m in.

All I wanted to do was eat but my stomach was full of the Boston Creme so I walked until I made space for pizza and once again happened on another classic, Regina Pizza. I liked the no-nonsense vibe of the architecture. Once inside the host fixed me with a Boston stare asking what I wanted. I asked if they sold slices, she said I could get it to go or sit at the bar. I quickly said I’d sit at the bar. She jerked her head toward it and walked away. She had people to see and places to go! I do not blame her one bit.

I saw on the map there was a graveyard nearby so I walked up there. I love to visit graveyards.

That cool skull with the wings is called a “death's head.” According to the city of Boston website, “A death's head, often with wings or crossed bones, or both, was a stylized skull. Some have speculated that winged skulls were intended to symbolize a combination of physical death and spiritual regeneration.”

My next tattoo? Perhaps? I want an octopus, or maybe Medusa… still thinking…

Kinda obsessed with Boston now!

Thanks for reading! A comment or share means the world!

xoxoxo

Kim

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“Ohhhhhh,” they all said. “Boston! You’ll love it.”

I had no concept of Boston other than revolution stuff like Paul Revere and tea party, none. I was sad in Seattle, healing from a heartbreak, or trying to, an ever increasing horror at the state of our country, and anxiety of how to have a home at some point but not be trapped in a lease where I can’t afford travel. I was just blah, slowly coming out of it, like molasses on a cold day.

Then Boston. And sweet friends.

Thursday night: A Turkish Tavern

I arrived Thursday night. My friend grabbed me at the airport and we headed to Sarma, a restaurant in the Somerville neighborhood.

While we waited on seats at the bar to open up, we starting catching up over the parsnip fritters. The fritters were made of pomegranate, chickpea, walnut, pumpkin seeds and they were incredible. We both ordered the drink called “First Appearance” which was tequila, mezcal, mastic, pomegranate, soda water, and salt. Those of you who’ve been out with me know that I’m not a mezcal fan, but this was so light that it didn’t taste like I was drinking a burned log. I could even kinda see why people like mezcal.

Two seats opened up at the bar and it was our turn to order plates to share.

This is what we ate:

Ricotta Babaganoush: balsamic bbq pork, caponata, focaccia

Asian Pear Shirazi: cranberry chai, grapes, maple pecan chili crisp

Harissa BBQ Duck: carrot brown butter, orange blossom, fried almonds

Braised Leafy Greens: sweet potato curry, tamarind, coconut crisp

Reading those descriptions may make you wonder how it tasted, if the flavors fought with each other. That’s what I was worried about. But no, the chef knows exactly what they are doing. The flavors didn’t fight instead like the best kind of friendship they highlighted each other. Literally every bite was close-your-eyes-and-groan exquisite.

Saturday: No Kings Day

We took the train in so we didn’t have to worry about parking etc. I’d always ride a train if I could. Boston’s system is clean and easy to understand. Even though we are 18 miles out of the city, we drove a few miles to a station and rode to the middle of the city. Then you can take subways to neighborhoods. Epic. And really what every city of any size should have.

My friends first took me to the Boston Public Library. I’ll let the photos do the talking here. And I’ll tell you I really hope to go back before I leave.

After we left the library we saw a table of two college students doing nose swabs to collect data on new viruses. They didn’t collect names, just mucus, so we lined up to swab and get our $2 bill. ;)

No Kings Day was 150,000 people peacefully protesting on a huge hill in Boston Commons. The event was organized so everyone could hear the speakers and even get a glimpse from several screens. Tears filled my eyes when Elizabeth Warren made an appearance. I adore her and had no idea she was going to be there.

The Dropkick Murphys melded anger and humor with their music. Lead singer and band founder Ken Casey came out blazing with, “We need a little less kum-ba-ya and a little more ‘we’re sick of this bullshit!” If you are feeling down, go watch their concert, at least that first song. It will kick you in the pants for sure.

More Boston posts to come!!!

Thanks for reading!

Naples is gritty, boisterous, big hair and big butts, and LOUD. From fireworks to traffic to the general tone of conversation sounding angry all the time, I thought I would not be okay when I first got here. And it has taken a bit of a toll but at the same time I have smiled so much here. Just at the insanity of daily life. I’m in an apartment right in the mix of daily life, this ain’t no tourist area. A stone’s throw away is a 7-day a week street market where you can find pajamas, used clothes, fruits and veggies, cell phone cases and cords, boxed treats like cookies, sheets, a really strange mix of things.

The Vespas and motorbikes rule here. They zoom through the tiny streets that are really alleys, through the busy market, and even on the sidewalks honking at slow to get out of the way pedestrians.

There’s just people standing around yelling at each other.

I have felt safe except twice but no threat was made, just got a bit sketched out. The first was when I was walking from the train station to the Airbnb and there were many men just sitting around, which makes me nervous. The second time was tonight. I went out to get pizza and got back after dark. I think because it is Sunday night there are groups of people socializing and I had to pass a couple of groups of men and felt their eyes on me, but no one said anything rude. The only rudeness has been ordering food. It’s about 50/50 now on rude versus nice. Two have been extra super nice, both family run places.

I think most of you are gonna listen to this rather than read it so I’m going to just tell about those.

I have loved visiting here but am ready to go elsewhere tomorrow. I’m still not at 100, not even close. But I’ve been sleeping in late to try and catch up as sleep is still weird.

I went in some cool churches, walked down to the water, wandered the cool alleys with cute shops, went to the Archeological Museum, and people watched constantly. I went from the posh city of Rome, to this rambunctious hellion of a town, next to the small city of Salerno, then to a berg where there’s no grocery then to an island. What a progression that will be.

Hardly anyone I’ve met in Naples cafes/coffee shops speaks English which has surprised me. I haven’t wanted to cave and use Google Translate as that seems like cheating so I’ve eaten some interesting things.

I’d walked north and then east to get to the coffee shop so I walked south and then west to get back. I’d checked the maps as I left the coffee shop just to get a sense of how many blocks to go. I was looking for Ninth Street to turn and go south. I’d just passed 13th so 12 should be next.

The next block said 14th.

Damnit. I’d been walking so fast I’d gone too many blocks west and not enough blocks south. I checked my phone. It was after ten! I turned around, mapped it again and saw that yes, I’d been walking away instead of toward. I stepped up my pace even more, now talking to myself in a not nice fashion about paying closer attention. A talk I have to give myself often.

I walked in the door at 10:23. Two minutes to get on the wifi at the new house-sit, wipe the sweat from my brow, and greet the first writer.

I had to turn my camera off as my pale moonface made me unhappy.

I’m going to tell you the most shameful part now, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth since leaving my hotel room in Canada, 24 hours before.

Here’s how it went down and also why I’m kinda over this nomad thing right now:

I awoke early Thursday night/Friday morning at 2:30 a.m., for the fourth night in a row. Mayhap there was a logical reason, like the bars closed at 2:30 and I was awakened by revelers? Perhaps. I did know that I’d spent many hours doing different writing and research tasks the whole week at 2:fucking 30 a.m. Not this night. I’d win this time. I punched the pillow and turned over. And over, and over. Allowed a look at the clock, 3:46. Okay, so I wasn’t sleeping.

I got out my Mac and wrote something for The Pussycat Writing Collective, researched a Europe itinerary, and apartment-searched for when I might want to actually find an abode later this year. Then it was 5:30 and my body said we could sleep now.

So we did.

I arose at 10 to shower, pack, and made a dumb decision about breakfast, as I do. The choice was to walk somewhere nearby for breakfast, leaving the car in the free hotel parking garage or to drive to a different area. I chose to drive, thereby paying $11.23 to park for ONE HOUR. Really, Vancouver? That’s fairly damn greedy.

I did get to walk by a beach though, so there’s that.

We will not talk about the not great breakfast sammy and stale dry muffin. I got back in the car after the beach walk, and started the drive to Seattle.

On my way into Canada, the customs folks had not liked that I was a nomad without a home address, nor the fact that I had three suitcases, a gym bag, two backpacks, an antique hat box, one clothes basket of shoes, one clothes basket of coats, and four Amazon returns in the back of my car.

They were so damn nice about it though. At the first booth, the woman actually apologized that I would have to pull over so they could search the cornucopia of items strewn in the back of Subaru.

She handed me a yellow ticket to take inside the facility. There were eight agents, three were working with people. I stood quietly in the A line, wondering if A was good or bad. A young man called me over.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Vancouver.”

“Why?”

“Just for fun.”

“How long will you be there?”

“Four days,” I showed him my hotel itinerary on Expedia. He took my phone and looked at it, then handed it back.

“You live in Seattle?” he asked.

“I’m based out of Seattle but I’m a house sitter,” I said.

“A house sitter?”

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t have a home in Seattle?”

“No, I’m a nomad. I house sit when I’m in the U.S. and get Airbnbs when I’m out of the U.S.”

He was concerned. “Do you have anything else you can show me, appointments etc. that you have going on next week?”

I pulled up the Housesitters app and showed him my two upcoming house sits. He glanced at it but was not convinced I wasn’t going to stay in Canada. I didn’t blame him as I would like to stay in Canada.

He took my passport and went somewhere. I remembered I had a doctor’s appointment the next week and told him when he came back. I was babbling then, about The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective and I showed him the website and somehow this tipped him into believing I was honest.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re good,” pushing my passport and paperwork back, then he asked, “How much money do you have available in credit cards and cash?”

“Uhhh,” I looked at him trying to do numbers in my head and shot low, “15,000?”

It was good enough. He nodded, “We just have to make sure people can take care of themselves on their visit.” He didn’t ask to see any credit cards or bank statements. I’m guessing I’m weird enough that they know it has to be honest.

I was nervous about coming through U.S. customs because, you know, the orange man and such. (Isn’t that so Stephen King-esque? We are truly living in some form of The Stand, aren’t we? And Fahrenheit 451, 1984…) The driver in front of me was having an extended conversation with the two customs people in the booth. One of them walked around and opened the back of his SUV and rummaged around a bit. They put an orange plastic thing on his hood, pointed to where he was to pull over, and then watched him. He was wearing a turban. I was scared for him. I waited until they looked my way to pull up. I had all the windows rolled down so they could see inside.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“I’m based out of Seattle,” I said.

“Do you have a home there?”

“No, I’m a house sitter.”

“You’re a house sitter.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have a home in Seattle.”
“No. I house-sit in Seattle and then get Airbnbs when I travel.”

She looked confused and cranky so I said, “Does that make sense?”

“No,” she snapped. From the booth she glanced in the back of the Subaru, then handed me my passport and waved me in.

I arrived in Seattle at 3 p.m., a few hours before I was to go to my house-sit so I found a parking spot a few blocks from my daughter’s apartment. I hung out with her cats and did some work online. The new house-sit people were showing me where stuff was in the house at 6:30, going to an event at 7, then leaving for the airport in the early morning hours. I’d never slept at a house sit while the owners were there but they’d put Friday’s date on the house-sitting app and I didn’t want to ask my daughters to host me yet again. I do bother them if I have to but this sounded like it wouldn’t be too awkward. I was ever so wrong.

I did not want to leave her cozy apartment but I like being on time, so at 6:15 I walked out in the cold dark rain, drove to the sit, and walked up to see the man of the house sitting in front of a table with food. My heart sank. It did not look like he was leaving anytime soon. The woman of the house answered the door. She had overalls on and said sheepishly she didn’t think they were going to their event, that they weren’t finished packing. I looked at the cozy living room right by the small dining room where the man sat. They were obviously mid-dinner.

There was nowhere to be for the next four hours that wouldn’t be under their feet upstairs, but I hoped the room I was sleeping in would be a place to hide. She showed me the cat food, cat waterer, extra towels, etc. and then took me to the mostly unfinished basement to show me the litter and my bedroom. She mumbled something about finding the Fire stick for the tv. My heart sank. I pictured myself huddling in the room for the next 12 hours. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t sit down there like a weirdo while they were packing upstairs. Everything in me was exhausted, on edge, and wanted peace and quiet, not weirdness. I’d have to go back to Savannah’s place.

I told her I was going to hang out with my daughter more, a lie as Savann was at work. She said cool. Perhaps she didn’t realize how awful it was for me to come in expecting to be alone in the house and not only finding out they’d be there but there was nowhere to hide. I do know my hatred of basements is not a normal thing. The feeling of being underground gives me the willies.

There’d been no point at all to me leaving the warm apartment, walking in the cold rain in the dark, losing my good parking space. She could have simply texted and said they weren’t going to their event and that I could come later. I’d have come in right before bed. I’m sure they had a lot on their mind but that seemed a pretty simple thing to think of. Also, they are house sitters themselves so I would have thought they’d realize it. Alas, no.

I drove back, hoping my parking spot I’d left a half hour before might still be there. It was not. I drove several blocks over and found one in some mud and a sort of ditch, a very dark spot that felt a bit creepy but I took it. I stayed at Savann’s until almost 10:30 so they’d for sure be asleep. I walked back to the Subaru in the pitch dark wet, and drove back to the house-sit.

Then I was nervous, realizing I would have to walk through their house while they were asleep. I was trying to remember exactly where the basement door was. It was dark, no lights on. Great. I blinked, walked down the hall, saw I was heading for their bedroom, took a hard right into the kitchen, then saw the basement door. Sagging with relief I took the stairs, setting down my small bag and backpack. That morning I’d chosen to put my toothbrush in the suitcase rather than the small bag, not knowing I’d be creeping into a house with the hosts sleeping rather than having hours to settle in alone. No way in hell was I walking back up the stairs, through the house with sleeping strangers, outside to the car and then back. Furry teeth it was.

I turned to see one of the cats sitting by the bed and said hello. He hissed. I put my hand out slowly to sniff. He hissed more and swiped a paw at me. Wonderful. He actually creeped me out. I shooshed him out, shutting the door behind him, changed into my pjs and went out to go to the toilet they had in the basement. He was sitting in front of the closed door and hissed again. Okayyyy, I’d hold it.

I was exhausted from the drive, the jump scare of the hissing cat, the frustration of the evening and the entire week of 2:30 awakenings. I climbed in bed with a rumbling empty stomach, a full bladder, and unbrushed teeth.

Maybe the nomad life is not for me anymore.

Thus the next morning I went to the coffee shop, got lost, and rolled into my Saturday morning writing group with the same furry teeth.

There’s some research that says doing different things helps your brain but there’s other research about the effects of stress on your brain. I’m not sure where I sit between those. Over the last 15 months I’ve slept in 55 beds, at my best count. Perhaps a few more.

I may be growing some brain cells from all the learning that takes place but I think it is all leaking out from the stress, kinda like trying to build a snowman in the sun.

By this time next year I’ll either make it into MENSA or still be wandering the streets, blocks away from where I thought I was, checking my damn cellphone to see where the house was that I just left a half hour before.

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Thanks for reading or listening! A like or share is a shot of encouragement. I’ll still write, but I’ll be happier knowing you liked it.

Love, Kim

My writing journey is weird, but so is my life. Whose isn’t?

Every single person I know has an overwhelming amount of stress and noise right now.

Even I, someone who’s always championed that writing ALWAYS matters, am struggling to find the purpose of writing nomad tales or planning Pussycat writing events in the midst of the end of the damn world.

And yet, I can’t stop writing.

It doesn’t feel important, at all, to share with you what this nomad life is like.

(It’s not as fun right now as I made a dumb choice to winter in Seattle. What the fuck was I thinking? Ah yes, I was giving a man a chance to step up. I should be sunning my ass somewhere. Not his fault on my decision to stay around Seattle, that’s all on me darlings. I’m a bit ridiculous when it comes to matters of the heart, as many of you know.)

So while this feels pretty dumb, here I am. I do have a hope that this shrieking of the eels is the last gasp of the patriarchy. Please goddess may we try something else?

I believe in the power of story to connect us in our humanity. I have seen in my life, and others, the power of someone’s story to connect people who’d never have connected in any other circumstance.

So yeah. It’s important, even at the end of the world, because maybe it isn’t the end and until it is I guess we keep on keeping on, doing the things that seem silly as fuck but perhaps are the most powerful amazing things we can be doing.

If this resonates, I’d love to see you at our free Saturday Meetup. Based off the Shut Up & Write philosophy, we show up, say hi, take a half hour to write, and commiserate over how damn hard it is to write. That’s all. You can literally write your damn shopping list if that is what you need to do. I will just be happy you are there. Seriously. I’m a frustrated extrovert. The nomad life is damn lonely I tell ya.

If you’ve wanted to write but would love some help getting started, next month I’m offering “Permission to Suck: How the hell do you start writing?” The name changes a little bit each time I write it down.

And yes, I know the word “suck” has many connotations. (Hello former FWB who texted a joke about the name.) I’d say choose the wholesome connotation this time, but you do you boo.

If group stuff sounds quite horrible then let’s talk one on one.

Writing and helping writers are two of my very favorite things. I’m not famous, not a NY Times best-selling author (yet), but as I’ve mentioned, my superpower is helping scared writers. Like… I LOVE IT. And I’M GOOD AT IT.

As you can maybe tell, this is anti-corporate, anti-influencer, no funnels, no clickbait, no one million followers, no famous parental units. (I say that because I’m so tired of all the books out there just because someone is kinda famous. I’m in an anti-famous mood, how about you?) I’m just a messy, loving human who wants to help other messy humans write their stories.

Any and all encouragement that you read this (hit a like please!) or you wanna do this but you have to wait until summer (message me!) or you have a friend who needs just this thing (send this to them!), any and all of that helps me know that I’m not alone and this is a good thing and keep on keeping on, Kim. We are here cheering you on.

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Thanks for reading. If you made it this far I’m sending you a virtual hug from gray Seattle. Today it matches my mood. Grrrr.

Love,
Kim

I want to circle again the topic that sits at the bottom of my thoughts everyday, like the deep mud at the bottom of the farm pond, squishy in your toes until you feel the solid earth, teeming with life you don’t see but it’s there alive and unnoticed until you look.

Home.

That is the topic that drives me crazy everyday. What is it? Where is it? How do I find it? Have I found it and don’t realize it? Is it really just my own self?

There’s a fear that it is just me. That I’m my home, whether I’m in Seattle or Kansas City or Malta, I carry my home with me like a turtle does. I don’t like this idea at all. That cannot be enough, just me. How boring. How not fun.

Instead I think of the word shimmering, golden on the horizon. Home. It is a magical place I have not found, a place I long for. A place where I will be cherished and I will cherish, where I am celebrated, noticed, loved, hugged, adored, looked on with eyes of warmth and joy. A place where I belong and feel comfortable.

I have experienced home in my life:

The farm I grew up on is original home. I look back with eyes of seeing what I didn’t see then, with wisdom that explains actions looking for love but it is also a place that I felt comfortable as a child. The walnut tree’s high branches were mine because I could outclimb my sisters and somehow people left me there so I could think alone. A moment of noticing the world, perhaps my first, barefoot on the cold brown soil cut in big chunks by the plow and turned to the bright spring sun. I stood and marveled watching my father on the tractor changing everything to something new.

Holding my babies, especially those middle of the night feedings when the world was just us, the outside world didn’t exist, just darkness and silence and my astounding love for the tiniest warm bundle of muscle and bones, the utter magic of this human who’d grown inside me now here where I was lucky enough to be the one to hold them.

The R.A.W. stage. RAW is another baby of mine. She’s all grown up but still going strong with other people now. I wanted a space where people could tell their stories, painful ones or sexy ones that weren’t accepted on other stages. The stories were funny and tender and terrifying, from kitty cats to mean moms to bumpy penises, and everything in between. I not only built a community but really it is a family, deep bonds formed from honoring each other’s stories.

The front porch of 4117, lovingly called The Stabbin Cabin by a beau of mine. My son, my gay bestie and I lived there for two years. Even though we got under each other’s feet and on each other’s nerves sometimes, it was home. I haunted that front porch in warm spring sun, lazy summer mornings, and golden fall evenings.

Sometimes the sense of home isn’t logical. How did it feel so right to be in a tent on the Oregon coast, alone? The loneliness of my trips last year didn’t touch me on those road trips. Was it because I was still teaching and I was so grateful to be away from the cinder block walls and bells? Was it because the days were so full and delicious? The making of breakfast outside, crisp air, coffee and sun, crows and squirrels. The satisfaction of packing up, putting everything in its place. Exploring the different beaches all day, arriving at camp in the afternoon to set it all up again. Ending the day by staring into a fire, alone but not lonely. Perhaps it was because I lived with two young men and between that and school, this was the only time I was truly alone. And now the alone is the most of it.

And yet I’ve made the choices over the last 16 months to not put down the roots that enable me to build the home I miss. I’m worried I will be trapped and not able to travel but I don’t think that is true. I think I could figure it out. Let’s dream a little dream shall we?

Let’s forget that the world is burning up, that the ugly pedophiles are in charge and killing people and imprisoning them… just for a moment.

A home of my own. With a bicycle, an electric fireplace, books, a good reading lamp and chair. A good desk by a window that looks onto a garden. (We’re dreaming, remember.) Since we’re dreaming, let’s go whole hog, a kayak and water nearby. A gaggle of women friends to do things with: movies, potluck dinners, walks, beach days, front porch sits, water aerobics and yoga, coffee shops and ice cream.

Maybe there’s a sweet man, maybe we live together, maybe we don’t but we smooch and smile, we hold hands and share our secrets, most of them. We slow dance in the kitchen, giggle in the bedroom, and listen intently. We make love that wasn’t there before.

There’s also work that I like, with people who smile when I come in, and I smile when they come in. There’s writing that I don’t give up on, writing something good that is published by someone other than me. There’s a storytelling open mic I start in a cool venue that gives people joy to tell, and hear, and see themselves on a stage. There’s family, and fun. There’s good books in a cozy chair on rainy days.

I can see it. I’m not entirely sure how to get there. I kind of want to start now but I have a plane ticket to Malta and I plan to use it if I can. And I think I need this time for some reason, for some purpose before I head down that road to that home. Maybe there’s another idea of home I’m missing.

I hope I can keep the loneliness at bay as I take in the sights. I hope to be a turtle and carry home on my back, in my heart.

Hi!

I’m Kim.

My superpower is helping scared writers, forged in the trenches of teaching teenagers for 21 years, and adults at workshops and community college classrooms. This isn’t corporate bullshit, no funnels or high pressure crap.

Just a girl, standing in front of you, asking you to let yourself begin your writing journey. ;)

Hope to see you soon.

Maybe it’s been a few years, or ahem, decades, since you sat down to write something on purpose. Maybe you journal sometimes but you want more. Or maybe you’d be ever so happy to begin a journal.

You want to write, but you don’t know how to start.

Let’s do some writing before life passes us by, as it tends to do… here are some ways you can join us!

• Permission to Suck starts in a month, April 12. Details below!

• Every Saturday is our Free Writing Meetup. More details. Zoom link.

• And/or you can just schedule some time with me one-on-one if you like.

Permission to Suck: A Pussycat’s Guide on How to Start Writing

Sundays: April 12-May 17 11:30 a.m.-1-ish p.m. PST

sort of bookclub

We will read the best writing book ever published (in my humble opinion). We’ll talk about it and have little writing exercises that go along with the book.

sort of a class

I’ll teach you how to get the words out of your brain onto a page. Kind of an important thing for writers to know how to do, wouldn’t you say? The basics baby.

That’s where we start.

definitely a community

We aren’t hundreds deep. We are about a dozen right now. You’ll have a chance to meet some other scared writers who will remember your name.

Register meow!

What’s Next

You need access to Zoom, a cheap ass notebook and a pen you like. Once you register you’ll receive directions on what book to buy and all the details you need prior to the class starting.

Congrats on honoring your writing journey!!!

There’s nothing shameful about sex toys, or I don’t believe there is, but you also don’t want to leave a ten-inch box for a vibrator called Thrust in someone’s little blue recycle bin. It just ain’t classy.

I’d purchased Thrust online (from Bellessa if you want to get one, but if you ask me it ain’t that great), and had it delivered to my daughter’s address while she was away. Thrust had hung out in his box in my suitcase as I traveled to house-sits over several weeks. Since space is of the utmost importance for a nomad, I decided to a clean-out of the suitcase the night before I had to leave my latest house sit. I pulled Thrust from his box, tucking him safely in the shoe pocket so he wouldn’t inadvertently scare anyone. The clean-out had yielded a shirt I never wore, a pink USB cord that didn’t fit anything I had, and Thrust’s box, prominently displaying his photo, a large bright pink penis with a big ol’ tongue. I set them in a dining room chair to put in my car for Goodwill and the trash as I finished packing.

The next morning I’d carried everything out to the car and was doing a final walk-through when something caught my eye. I was about to walk out and leave the clean out pile in the dining room chair. It was pushed under the table so it was quite a miracle I’d seen the damn thing. Laughing at my close call, I thanked Skeleton Woman and whatever other goddesses might be listening, then set the items on top of the Trader Joe’s bag sitting by the door. I left the keys on the table, locked the door, and walked out, making sure it shut and locked behind me.

I drove to my daughter’s place as I had one night in between house sits. My girls are kind enough to host me on these occasions. In the dark I grabbed my backpack and suitcase and looked for the Trader Joe’s bag as I’d planned to throw the massive Thrust box in the huge dumpster on my way in. It had been too close a call with the whole dining room chair thing.

The bag wasn’t in the front seat, where it should have been. There was a Trader’s Joe bag but it contained food. I knew I hadn’t put it in the back of the Subaru, but maybe my brain was broken. I looked, hoping against hope I’d put it there.

My brain was broken, just not in the way I thought.

It was not in the Subaru.

Therefore it was either sitting in their driveway or inside the locked house. I closed my eyes to think through my leave taking. I had not picked the damn thing up. The bag was still inside the locked house. There was no point in driving back across town in the night to check. They’d be home soon and I had no way in.

I stood there in the street in the dark trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. Because… it was funny and also horrible.

Instead, I began to mull how to acquire my items. I’d have just left the whole Trader’s Bag and never gone back for it but it had my new $150 raincoat in it. I had to leave early in the morning for my next sit so I’d have to get the damn thing on my way.

I remembered then that the very last thing I had grabbed was a hoodie. Perhaps it was on the top of the bag, covering the Thrust box…I could only hope.

I concocted a text notifying the owner that I’d left a bag and if she’d set it outside by 8:15 a.m. I’d be so grateful to get it on the way to my next sit. She said she would.

I drove there the next morning in the rain trying to remember if there was an overhang that would protect the bag? Or would I have to ring the doorbell and make nice while collecting the bag with the fun but potentially offensive Thrust box mocking me?

I parked, and checked the front porch.

Nothing.

I walked to the side door.

There sat the bag outside.

Yes, she’d definitely seen it.

There’s no way in Hades hell she hadn’t.

I can only hope it gave them a laugh and a good story.

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—————————————————

I read back over the Thrust draft, sipped my now tepid latte, and adjusted my bum on the hard metal stool, chosen for the window so I could bathe in the luscious golden sun, an anomaly in Seattle in January. The low battery notification on my Mac popped up again so I began digging in my bag for the cord.

It wasn’t there.

I took a breath and dug again because I knew from past experience that cords can hide under anything. Out came Pussycat flyers, the Bullet Journal, Pema Chodron’s Start Where You Are, headphones I hadn’t used in months, the January/February 2026 issue of Poets & Writers, and the orange Izod bag with travel necessities.

The cord still wasn’t there.

Now my breath caught. 14 months into being a nomad I ALWAYS placed my Mac cord in my backpack before leaving a location.

This habit had served me through trains, planes, and Subaru trips. Through five months in Italy, Malta, Spain, Greece, and Mexico. Through 13 states, 34 Airbnbs and 16 house sits.

Well, 15 I suppose as I couldn’t count this last one as a win. So where the fuck was it?

One of the important things in the nomad life, perhaps the most important after safety, is to gather all your shit before you leave.

My heart began to pound as I realized I was at 4% battery and I had a workshop to teach in six hours. This problem needed to be solved NOW.

I closed my eyes and thought through the night before. I remembered placing my Mac in a cardboard box as both needed to go downstairs. Had I left the cord in the box? If so, it was in the recycle bin, but that went out every Monday so it might be gone. I allowed a momentary acceptance of this fate.

Where else could it be? My suitcases? Not likely as I had repacked clothes the day before and I never put the Mac cord there.

Could it be in the Trader’s Joe’s bag, where the embarrassing Thrust box had been, and the jackets? Perhaps. I remembered that I had put my art journals in the bottom of that bag so I now had a small hope.

I gathered my things, walked back from the coffee shop to the apartment, greeted Oreo, my current cat sit, and looked in my backpack once again, taking every item out. It still did not appear. I grabbed my keys, and headed to the parking lot. The front seat was empty. The same Trader Joe’s bag with food that had given me hope the night before sat on the floorboard. I checked it just for shits and grins. No cord.

I said prayers again to Skeleton Woman and any other magical being that might hear my plight and take pity. I was already considering my options, abandoning the powerpoint and running the workshop off my phone, or asking two local friends who had Macs if they had a cord I could borrow. I opened the back of the Subaru and began pulling jackets out of the bag that had contained Thrust.

Underneath the coats, on top of bread, by the peanut butter lay the Mac cord. Why had I placed notebooks, food, jackets, the Thrust box and my Mac cord in one bag? This broke every organizational rule I had for myself.

Then I remembered, these were all the items that had been upstairs. I had done a sweep of the kitchen and packed them to organize later.

An understandable but idiotic move. However, organization cannot be delayed. Food stays with food. Boxes go in the trash. Jackets go in the clothes basket. Notebooks were fine but the Mac cord always-always-always goes in the backpack.

Always.

Oh.

And also, Thrust boxes portraying big ol’ tongues immediately go into a big ol’ dumpster even if it is out of my way.

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Introducing two Audacious Pussycat Writers, Karen Markle and Erica, Just Erica. Erica wrote “Why I Write” during our first One True Tail personal narrative workshop in a response to the Terry Tempest Williams piece. The Guide to Karen was written during an Audacious Pussycat Side Quest.

Enjoy!

Why I Write

(Inspired by Terry Tempest Williams)

I write to get the torturous thoughts out of my head .

I write to express my love for others, that I can’t seem to speak.

I write for the love of creating fullness.

I write to open my mind like a beautiful meditation.

I write for the peace it brings from within.

I write because I love to read and I believe writing and reading go hand in hand .

I write to expand my brain’s capacity to learn .

I write for the pure joy of the feeling of ink flowing onto paper .

By Erica, Just Erica.

Erica has been a union tradeswoman in Kansas City for 34 years. She loves to tell a good “tail” on the R.A.W. Adult Storytelling stage. Oh, and that’s Bjorn who likes to help her write.

The Guide to Karen

Common name: Kayro; Kayrona

Scientific name: Karen curiosa fabricatrix

Warnings:

Karens do not like being made to feel stupid. They do not pretend to know everything, but when they are very sure about something, it is wise to listen. Do not lie or attempt to gaslight a Karen; their detection systems are highly advanced and unpleasant consequences may follow.

Diet:

Karens tend to develop long-term food preferences. When they discover a meal they enjoy, they may eat it consistently for months or years with little desire for variation. This behavior appears to conserve mental energy for more interesting pursuits such as research, planning, and creative work. Observers occasionally mistake this habit for lack of culinary curiosity; in reality the Karen simply sees no reason to re-engineer a perfectly satisfactory lunch. Field researchers note that Karens may suddenly abandon a long-standing favorite and replace it with an entirely new staple, repeating the cycle indefinitely.

Habits:

Karens love to learn. They rarely feel fully knowledgeable and are often reading, researching, or taking classes. They tend to accumulate knowledge faster than they can complete the projects inspired by it, yet remain delighted by the learning process itself.

Activities:

Karens love to create. They also, perhaps even more, love to make plans to create. Many are avid crafters, though they may become shy when asked what they make, so maintain a respectful facial expression if you are fortunate enough to receive an answer.

Geography:

Karens are homebodies. Their geographic location may change, but they tend to stay where placed, leaving their den primarily for trusted friends and short excursions. They are highly compatible with extended independent activity such as reading, researching, reorganizing creative spaces, or quietly building something interesting.

Stereotypes:

A few “Karens” have given the name an unfortunate reputation. Most Karens are thoughtful, open-minded individuals who strongly defend anyone being treated as “less than.” When protecting others, they can become unexpectedly fierce.

Predators:

Karens have occasionally underestimated certain male species and hence become their prey, though recent evolutionary adjustments indicate that their standards are rising rapidly.

Problem response:

Karens tend to treat obstacles as puzzles rather than barriers. When encountering confusing instructions, inefficient systems, or poorly designed objects, they often begin analyzing the problem immediately and experimenting with possible improvements. This behavior can lead to unexpectedly elegant solutions, though it may also result in the Karen quietly redesigning things that technically worked fine before she arrived.

Autonomy:

Karens operate comfortably without constant external direction or validation. Once a problem or idea captures their attention, they tend to pursue it independently through research, experimentation, and trial-and-error learning.

Odd characteristics:

Karens display intense hyperfocus when a subject or craft captures their interest. They may suddenly become deeply invested in a topic from 1837, medieval dye chemistry, or obscure municipal zoning history and speak about it as if everyone has been following along the entire time. During these phases they exhibit strong pattern radar, quickly noticing inconsistencies, logical gaps, or symbolic connections that others miss. This ability makes them unusually good at solving puzzles but occasionally results in long, thoughtful sighs during poorly reasoned conversations.

Karens also demonstrate a phenomenon known as project clustering, where one interesting idea produces six related ideas, each requiring its own brief research expedition. This often leads to multiple notebooks, lists, or digital files operating simultaneously, none abandoned, merely “in rotational dormancy.” A related trait is tool enthusiasm. Karens sometimes acquire supplies for a craft slightly faster than they complete the craft itself, because the potential of the tools is almost as exciting as the finished object.

Karens also experience blueprint pleasure. While they enjoy finished projects, they derive nearly equal satisfaction from designing, organizing, mapping, and planning them. A Karen may happily spend an entire evening creating diagrams, lists, or research folders for a project that will begin “very soon.” Researchers estimate this phrase may represent a timeline anywhere between three days and three years.

Karens frequently exhibit ability skepticism, a trait in which they quietly assume they are probably not very good at something even while successfully doing it. This can lead to statements such as “I’m probably terrible at this,” followed several hours later by the completion of a perfectly functional object.

Karens also maintain an internal archive of “things that are interesting but not immediately useful.” The archive is extensive and occasionally activated years later when a strangely specific piece of knowledge suddenly becomes exactly what is needed.

Observers sometimes mistake these behaviors for disorganization; in reality they are the visible surface of a complex internal knowledge ecosystem continually rearranging itself.

Final Classification:

Harmless to the intellectually honest.

Potentially dangerous to nonsense.

Karen expounding on a current topic of interest on the R.A.W. Adult Storytelling stage in Kansas City. Recent curiosity expeditions: wandering through centuries of art history, planning builds for tiny literary worlds inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, and working on a 3-D blueprint of a home she is building in southwest Missouri.

Bowl cradles wheat

from sun-drenched fields

measured warmth of water

excites the yeast

melding

swinging

singing

blossoming

lusciously pounded down

rising billowy

steady heat

transformation

stasis

cooling

complete.

-KAB

I swung my feet to the floor and sat up. My head swam like a ten-year-old who’d just turned three somersaults in the pool. What was this fresh hell?

As a solo traveler who’s just past the six decade mark of being earthside, I’m extra careful with this kind of thing, picturing myself falling and breaking a hip like that lady in the commercials I grew up seeing, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” The camera zooms in on her stricken face as she dies alone on the floor because she didn’t have the clicker thing to alert everyone of her fall.

I often carry my damn cell phone around house sits just to alert someone in case I eat it on the basement stairs. Also because I had a major wake up call last fall in Puerta Vallarta when I walked out on the balcony in my undies and tshirt, braless duh, to see why it was so damn noisy (a pop up club on the roof next to me, yay!). Somehow in the nick of time I realized the balcony door automatically locks and grabbed it, immediately realizing had I not caught it I would have spent the night on the balcony and had to yell at someone to save me somehow the next morning. Good lord.

Back to the story. Head swimming. Dizzy.

I carefully stood. Somehow the dizziness was worse if I opened my eyes fully which made no sense but I went with it, allowing a small squint to walk the few feet to the bathroom for the middle of the night pee.

My first night in Canada. Cool. Vertigo is just what you want.

There are some extenuating circumstances, so I already knew this trip wasn’t going to be the ultimate.

I am recovering from a cold that started last week. One of those where you are battling mucus buildup in your head and chest. My nose feels like the skin of a lizard. I used an entire roll of toilet paper one day last week between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. to blow my nose, those nice big rolls, not the little crap ones from Aldi.

Because of the cold and because I didn’t want to snore and wake Savannah who had hosted me the night before, I was diligent in trying to keep my mouth shut so I didn’t sleep, like I really didn’t sleep, like one of those nights where not only you don’t sleep but you are ANXIOUS about it, which helps ever so much to relax and rest.

I had also forgotten to take my nighttime hormone pill, progesterone.

Also I was dehydrated.

And I had driven to Vancouver from Seattle and eaten only two meals instead of three with snacks as per my usual.

I downed some water, rummaged around in my backpack, cursing when I couldn’t find a protein bar as I have them stashed in EVERY bag just in case. Elevated the rummaging and found the damn thing, a crumbly dry peanut “flavored” situation and ate it crankily.

Then I grabbed an extra pillow so my head would be propped up higher, maybe that would help with the vertigo.

It didn’t.

The anxiety returned, now about the dizziness and would it ruin the next day, the only sunny one predicted by my weather app. I wanted to walk the Seawall. I’d planned outside stuff for Tuesday, then museums and thrifting for Wednesday and Thursday when it was supposed to rain.

Such is life. Let it go, let it go, let it goooooooooo. (I alternately sing this or “Everything is okay. Everything is okay. Everything is okay,” which I inadvertently did on the phone with my sis Karo the other day, forgetting it was probably a weird thing but remembering when she laughed really hard.)

Most of the night from then, I think it was 2-ish?, passed with me wanting to sleep but staring at the darkness trying different pillow combos and sleeping positions. Somewhere around dawn my body said, yeah okay let’s sleep now.

Perfect.

I let myself lay there, through five dings of texts then checked them. Just some responses to my texts of the day before. I switched off the sound and lay in a sort of trance, knowing I needed sleep and eventually eggs and bacon. If I waited too long to eat I’d enter the zone of fuckery where I wanted to sleep all day, not hungry. I now knew that even if I felt I needed sleep, there was a time where I had to drag my ass out of my room for sustenance, like a bear after hibernation.

“It does not matter what time you leave your room. It is okay if you are searching for brunch at 11 a.m.” Yes I say this to myself. I’m still fighting the puritan bullshit that there is holiness to being an early riser. There isn’t.

That being said, when I’m healthy it is quite lovely to eat and coffee and write and walk by 10:30 a.m. I feel like a rockstar when this happens. I’m just trying to do what I need day by day, and not feel like a lazy piece of crap if my body needs more rest that day. The effect of sleeping in a different bed each week and figuring out groceries and new kitchens or coffee shops is great for your brain but tiring on an old bod.

I dressed, even put on my cute jewelry and some makeup, then walked to Yolk and had the most basic bitch breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. They did have these potatoes with lemon and some spice. The latte was so good I closed my eyes and said “Fuck yes,” out loud. I think I scared the host.

I hoped eating breakfast would beget a miraculous recovery from two nights of no sleep, dehydration, fucking with hormones, and lack of nutrition so I could walk miles around the seawall. Not to be. I wanted to go straight back to bed but I made myself walk a few blocks west, then south, then west, then north. First it was gritty old stores in Davies, the LGBTQ hood. Like vape stores and such. Then I was in pretty residential apartments. Then got back to the cool area and found a thrift store but nothing I needed.

I saw this sign and stepped in the street to take this photo.

A woman said, “Are you reporting me?” when I stepped back on the sidewalk.

“Pardon me?” I said, having no idea what she meant. She was smiling and looking in my eyes so I wasn’t worried she was going to knife me. And she had lilacs in a shopping bag.

“Are you reporting me?” she repeated.

“I was taking a photo of that cool lesbian sign,” I said.

“Oh I thought you were taking a picture of me because I was feeding the birds,” she pointed at the pigeons gathering seeds on the sidewalk.

“Oh,” I said. “No.”

“Even the crows are into it today,” she watched them. “We aren’t supposed to feed them but I like to.”

“I’d probably feed them too,” I smiled at her. She smiled back. I wished her a good day feeling immensely better than before with that simple human interaction. I am more introverted than I used to be, immersing myself in words, steeping in stories I’m creating or someone created for me, losing track of the world. But I also need humans smiling at me, exchanging a moment of “I see you.” I am on a quest to give that as much as it is wanted. I’ve learned that sometimes it isn’t.

I’ve also learned that being a nomad isn’t a vacation. There are days, like this, where I come back to the room for a snooze or to work/write rather than head out for adventure. In the past (not so long ago) I’ve shamed myself for this but I try not to. It’s a weird life, and I ain’t a spring chicken so I’m gonna get tired and it’s okay to rest. It’s okay not to see everything.

Now for that nap, then hopefully lunch and the seawall walk.

Thanks for reading this probably too long post of my last 12 hours.

XOXO

Kim

I found myself sitting at a romantic table for two by the harbor in Chania, watching the sunset. I’d planned to get food from a tiny grocery store but when the choices were mostly junk food I walked on in hopes of finding something better.

The tall Greek manning the host stand at the first restaurant on the promenade asked if I’d like a table. I looked at the two rows of small white tables clinging to the side of the hill by the water and made myself say yes. Even though it was day 68 of my solo trip in Europe, this part of it, eating dinner alone was still hard for me.

I was the only one sitting there at first, in the two rows of white tables clinging to the hill by the water. I texted a friend as I read over the huge menu so I’d not feel as alone sitting in the two rows of small white tables clinging to the side of the hill by the water. Finally other people wandered up and were seated.

An older couple behind me griped at each other in quiet British voices. Next to me a German couple twinkled at each other while choosing what food to share. Since I was seated by the host stand, people in twos and fours would stop to look at the menu, then me. I could feel their eyes, their curiosity at my aloneness. I smiled at them, or looked at the water, because that was better.

Finally my food arrived. The tall Greek filleted a Red Snapper as big as my forearm tableside, pointed out where the big bones were then left me to eat. I poured the garlic butter sauce, ate my first bite, and marveled.

Time collapsed. I was a girl again, reclining at dizzying heights in the old walnut tree, watching the clouds, day-dreaming of me,

the one who sits by the sea alone in a faraway place, at a table with a linen cloth and fresh flowers, sipping wine from a fancy glass, enjoying a bowl of local greens, and a humongous fish plucked from the water that morning. Things I never knew I liked when I was the girl in the tree.

White wooden fishing boats, striped with red and blue, rocked on the gentle waves. The sun left a silvery path on the water as it dropped behind the mountain.

Memory telescoped again, this time to the buzz of cicadas, the crunch of coarse grass under my feet as I pinned clothes to the line, stopping to watch a jet soaring to parts unknown as I yearned for this moment sitting in the two rows of white tables clinging to the hill by the water.

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I’m so glad you are here. It is an honor that you are spending some of your one precious life here. (footnote 1)

I hope you find something in my musings that makes you laugh or feel less alone.

Who the hell am I?

I’m a nomad.

In November 2024 I sold everything I could on Facebook Marketplace, threw some stuff away, packed Sophia the Subaru to the hilt, and headed to Kansas City for my first nomad gig, cat sitting Maisy and Simon while my friend Eddie went to Europe for 90 days.

Then it was my turn. Over the last 14 months I’ve traipsed through five countries and 16 states. Stayed in 25 Airbnbs. Took care of nine dogs and fifteen cats in 17 house sits.

I’m writing this in Seattle in February 2026 while Yuri, the fluffiest white kitty who is still scared of me, creeps behind the couch. Plans for this year include Boston in March, and Malta in May. Then Sardinia, southern Spain, Amsterdam. After that? I’m not sure.

I’m a solo female traveler.

Freedom and loneliness are my constant companions. It is joyful and terrifying at the same damn time. I’m walking around in awe or in tears. Sometimes both.

So many times over the last year I’ve thought how no one in the world knew exactly where I was at that moment. (footnote 2)

Traveling alone as a female is different. I often find myself running a cost-benefit analysis of an activity. How much fun might this be and could it cost me my safety or my life? I suppose some might argue I could be a little safer (footnote 3), or even more adventurous (footnote 4) but I think I’m making good choices. I’m still here aren’t I? (footnote 5)

I’m also a traveler with not much moolah to my name so I have to make the moolah stretttttchhhhhh. There will be some tips on how I stretch those dollars cuz I love to talk about it.

I’m a writer, mentor and audacious pussycat.

I’ve been writing forever. At first in one of those little diaries with the cheap lock that broke immediately.

I’m published but not in any fancy or special kind of way. Small newspapers in the 90s, state education mags in the 20-teens, and one racy memoir I self published last year. No NY Times best sellers here. Just someone who loves to write, who taught writing to teenagers for 21 years, and currently works with the coolest writers in The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective . More on that later. (footnote 6)

What will you find here

Stories of planes and trains, boat and Bolts. (footnote 7)

Waking in 52 beds in a year. Schlepping items to and fro. Whimsical musings and practicalities.

Of getting lost and of finding myself. Maybe. I’m still figuring that out, but I’m getting closer to who I used to be, the wild girl before the world tamed me.

And lucky you, some pieces from the writers of The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective.

A few deets

I plan to post weekly on Sunday mornings in the hopes you can read it, warm beverage in hand, in your favorite cozy spot, maybe even petting your best furry friend.

Posts are free but if something makes you smile and you wanna buy me my next cappuccino, I’ll let you. I’m mulling a paid tier for people who want to go deeper but unsure what that might be. For now, that cappuccino or a like, comment or share means the world.

footnotes

1. Nod to Mary O.

2. I’d forgotten that my oldest can see my location. Ahhh but if I have no service, THEN no one knows.)

3. Like hiking alone.

4. Not going to pubs alone at night.

5. Knock on wood.

6. Come play with us on Saturdays at The Scratching Post. Write, read, draw, or craft alongside other creative folk. It’s free. For now.

7. Kinda like Uber, but cooler.

That’s how it was supposed to go on writing days, but with teenagers reality was more frenetic than that. Some needed a quick convo with the teacher in the hall, a question about the writing but really just a moment to connect and be reminded they were writers and their words mattered. Some whispered to their friends or used their phones in their bags until the inevitable warning glance, then the teacher glare, then the teacher standing over them reminding them who the fuck they were. They were writers.

On Mondays and Wednesdays we learned from the masters, played with genre and form.

On Fridays the writers piled onto the carpet and shared what they’d written that week.

And it was magic.

From the one who liked to talk about his dad’s machine guns to the one who wrote of her nightmares, from the thin tousled-haired human who was brave and beloved for his openness about his sexuality, to the one who disdained most classes but wrote philosophical essays here. They listened to each other, lifted each other, and truly saw one another. Saw past the differences to the heart and soul underneath. They saw that everyone wants to be loved, and everyone’s words mattered.

Creative writing class in Willard, Missouri circa 2016- 2017. I’ve missed it ever since and while I’ve made incredible memories with many students nothing approached the magic of that class that year. There are logical reasons the magic happened. Most of them were juniors and seniors so they knew how special the class was since they’d been in many awful ones at that point. Many of them had had me as a teacher before and knew my ways. There were fewer who didn’t care about writing and so the ones that did care bolstered them until they caught the vision.

I’ve always wanted to recreate the magic of that community we formed that year.

That is what The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective is all about. We are virtual. We have pussycats who live 1500 miles from each other who meet to write together.

Our “writing day” happens every Saturday at The Scratching Post. One hour to come together, say hello, write alongside each other, then share the struggles and joys of the process of writing, of being brave enough to put your own words on a page where someone might see them, but even more terrifying, where you see them.

Our “sharing day on the carpet” is the last Wednesday of the month at Pussycat R.A.W. Open Mic, free and open to anyone who wrote with us the month prior.

Our playing with genre and form and learning from the Masters is different each month. February was Writing Side Quests on Tuesday nights. We wrote odes to beloved things, including feta tomato cheese noodles, brownies, and clutter. The next week we wrote a guide to ourselves, playing with the idea of how animal guides are written. Last Tuesday we had a go at fan fiction which produced a dark 1970s Little House on the Prairie, an Edgar Allen Poe/Jo from Little Women romance, and a Shameless/Snow White fairy tale. (If this sounds like a fun journey that you’d like to take, you can purchase the How-To for February Side Quests.)

Next month our playing with genre and form is One True Tail. We’ll pull memories into a list, comb the list to see what “pulls our pen,” write a draft or two, then choose one to polish until it shines.

That favorite creative writing class is the spirit of The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective, community, connection, and a place to celebrate our stories.

Hope to write with you soon!

Kim