“I Am Resilient” A poem by guest blogger Daphne Guyer

I’ve been broken and abused,
manipulated and used.
I’m damaged goods
a walking, talking human bruise.
Yet, I remain resilient.

I’ve wanted to die
been made to cry,
My smile is how I hide.
I’ve dealt with the sneers,
from your social veneers.
I’ve cradled my inner child,
lying, curled up on my side
to protect the good,
from your flock of sheep hooves.
But I’m still here,
and I am resilient.

I’ve allowed you to get
the very best of me,
with your emotional sodomy.
I hold it in,
and I hold it in.
Until my emotions burst
through the pores of my skin.
Yet, here I stand,
defiant in my resilience.
And after all of this,
you no longer exist.
I claim my personal space,
and I laugh in your face,
because, I am resilient.
D. Guyer


The Problem with Comparing “Blurred Lines” with Posts on “Project Unbreakable”

Today another person sent me a picture which showed the similarities between the song “Blurred Lines” and things that rapists siad to their victims on “Project Unbreakable.”

I think that the song has some serious problems, so let me be very clear about that first.

But I also have a real problem with the logic of this picture and of the rhetoric that inspired it. I have said it before and I will say it again: Just because certain things were said by a rapist does not make those things “something a rapist says.” Rapists say lots of things that are not, in and of themselves, rapey. The things that rapists say are often hurtful and destructive only because of their context.

So I did an experiment. I wrote down everything that I could remember Pete saying the last time that we made love and I looked them up on the “what my rapist said” website.

More than half of the things that I remembered Pete saying were also things that a rapist had said to one of the women on the website. In fact, one of the things that he said was very similar to one of the cards in this picture.

But I assure you that there was absolutely no coercion of anyone. In fact, that particular time it was tender, sweet and and deeply loving, although hot as hell. In fact, it was some of the best sex that I can remember. Sorry for the digression and for the TMI. But it isn’t entirely gratuitous.

I think it illustrates my point that “things a rapist has said” cannot be the standard by which we judge if something is rapey or not. If it were, my husband would be a rapist, and for that matter I would be one as well.

Words once said by a rapist do not have to be discarded or banned. We can reclaim them if we want. Many times we can make them ours again during hot consensual sex.

Rapists don’t get to decide for us what is sexy talk and what is verboten. We decide

Having said all of that, I still think Blurred Lines is problematic. And I am not by any means saying that everything in the video is something that should be reclaimed.

I am talking about our methodology for deciding, not necessarily asking us to withdraw the condemnation of the video. We must exercise our good reasoning skills if we are to ask that sound logic be used in things like our governance.


Help Me Understand This New Male Ally

This weekend I read a guest editorial on the Feminist Wire by a guy named Matt Graber. Given the brevity of the piece and the wonderful and clear open access policy has for reprinting: I am including the entire post here.  It either has a brilliance that I do not understand, or it is pretty awful.

“Please don’t call me “man” or “dude” any longer. I will not join you in friendship or partnership on a male-supremacist, patriarchal project. I will not condone the view that women are born to provide you with sexual gratification, and to do care work for you.

I will not be your wingman. I will not support your objectification of women’s bodies. Women are not accessories to you, regardless of how much money you have. In social settings such as parties, bars, or clubs, I will not accompany you when you violate the personal space of others. When they refuse to allow you to enter into their personal space, I will not ease or comfort you.

Please learn to love and care for yourself. You are incredibly beautiful, and I want you to be cared for. Learn to cook, clean, sew, and care for yourself, your body, and your personal space. If you do not know how to care for yourself and are seeking a romantic partnership on the basis of finding somebody to do that work for you, then I will remain skeptical of your capacity to love and care for others.

I hope that we can differentiate between coveting bodies and loving people.

I love you. I want a friendship with you that is based on realizing the infinite possibilities of ourselves, our love, our bodies, and our gender expressions; a friendship based on falling head over heels in love with all life and all people. It is all far too beautiful than to be used and abused by you and me for the sake of manhood and masculinity.”

I get confused right off the bat in this piece. In the first sentence he say that he does not want to be called a man or a dude anymore because he believes that is what makes a person a member of patriarchal oppressive system. Let’s pass that one by and try to puzzle out this: “I will not condone the view that women are born to provide you with sexual gratification, and to do care work for you.”  Who is the “you” in that sentence? Surely he cannot be making such a crazily sweeping indictment against all men. Surely he understands that a lot of men do not actually believe that women are just fuck-puppets, cooks, parlor maids and nothing more.

But what Matt’s piece seems to be saying is that all men except him are knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing sex fiends eager to get their predatory hands on the nearest woman. And Matthew declares quite solemnly that he will have no part in your predation, and therefore will not be your wingman.  Fair enough. I am pretty sure that his services as such were not in terribly high demand.

What bothers me is the naked contempt that  Matt shows for his fellow human men. Because of his ethic – which is so much purer than that of the normal human guy – he will not offer you any support if you are looking to meet a nice woman, nor will  offer any  “ease or comfort you” if your appropriate approach is shot down.  I also don’t understand his desire for his fellow men to fall head over heels in love with all of life and every person. Is it just me, or are there some people that are better not friended let alone loved? And there is a lot of life that I don’t feel any compunction to love, like cancer and spiders.

I am honestly trying to understand how this is not just another example of gender hatred, only from a man directed towards a man. Can someone help me understand if this guy is, in fact an ally, and if so how he is helping?

Am I Good Enough for an Animal to Trust Me?: by guest blogger Shawna Clausen

In my lifetime so far, I have been witness to countless abused animals. One in particular is Rocky, who came to me when I was a rescuer with Pacific NW Border Collie Rescue from northern WA. He was blind and languishing in a shelter, with virtually no hope of being adopted, as the majority of people are simply ill-prepared to deal with a blind dog, let alone one with behavioral issues. My fellow rescue emailed me with Rocky’s photo and a brief blurb on him, asking if I was interested. Without any hesitation, I said ‘yes!’ and arranged transport to get Rocky from Washington to Oregon. Rocky came with plenty of baggage. It didn’t matter his age or the size of this little guy. He was as close to broken as I had ever seen. Our first evening, I made him a comfortable bed on the floor next to mine, gating him within the confines of the kitchen, so that he wouldn’t wander the house, marking everything in his path that he could smell and find. That first night was not great; he was nervous and antsy and until I allowed him to sleep next to me on my bed on the floor, he wouldn’t relax. As soon as he leaned against me, he fell asleep, along with myself.

Quite honestly, I was extremely hesitant at taking on Rocky. I hadn’t ever fostered a blind dog, so I had to quickly learn what his reactions to my own pack of dogs might be and to take a pro-active and non-punitive approach to training. Disciplining any dog with a punishment that they can’t understand (add blindness onto that and you’re simply adding to their frustrations) is a recipe for disaster. My yellow brick road with Rocky was one I won’t ever forget. It consisted of teaching him how to live in a world of darkness, showing him that there wasn’t anything to fear, that he really COULD leap over that log once he determined how high it was, that he really COULD swim with the pack and that I would be there to greet him. He could hike for miles and miles with me, through some of the most inhospitable terrain within wilderness areas in remote eastern Oregon. He never lost “sight” of me, always knew which direction to turn in order to check in with me. To “check in” meant that Rocky would find me, bump me in the back of my leg to see where I was, and then take off again, following the signs of my other dogs, running & playing in the woods. I think that in Rocky’s mind, he had found utopia.

This leads me to believe that Rocky came to me for a reason. I was broken at that time and as scared as I was to take on Rocky, telling myself that I was his only chance at life, I knew I had to do it partly for me. I was also feeling lost and abandoned and had to take a chance.

Unfortunately my time with Rocky ended up much shorter than I imagined. He started acting out within the pack. As much as a blind dog could challenge sighted dogs, he did his best. The chaos within the pack was almost instantaneous. He would bite as the dogs ran by, inciting normally easy going dogs to turn on Rocky. When he bit my leg one day, leaving me with a deep gash and three puncture wounds, while I was standing beside the dining table, after simply reaching down to pet him on his head, I knew I had to let him go.

The feelings of guilt upon even thinking of putting him down were unforgiving and immediate. But I knew that I couldn’t trust him to not attack someone else. And I knew that I had to let him go, with wishes upon a better journey than I could provide. One of the feelings that washed over me was “am I good enough for another animal to trust me? If I couldn’t make it work with Rocky, why should I do this again?”

The trust that abused animals place in the people that find them is immeasurable. They’ve been thrown away perhaps countless times, they may have no sense of belonging to a pack, no sense of who is leading them, no sense of direction. Which is exactly what some abused people feel when it comes to their attempts at figuring out their place in this world. How can they finally belong to a pack/group? Who is leading them (can’t be themselves as they have no trust in their abilities.) What direction do they go in? Life feels like one huge gerbil wheel, around and around and around the wheel, not getting anywhere, no steps backwards but no steps forward either.

So to train an abused animal, one needs to look inside themselves. It doesn’t at all mean that in order to overcome the obstacles and understand the baggage of an abused animal means that you have had to suffer abuse in your past; it simply gives you a different level of understanding.

Know that to start training means you take one step at a time. You gauge a situation differently (with all parts) before unleashing your dog within a pack of strange dogs, (think dog park). You wait a lot longer before allowing your dog to be alone for any period of time. You find patience from inside you on a level you never thought possible. And you try. And try more. And maybe try one more time. And sometimes the last time you try is what makes the relationship with that dog click. And finally, just finally, you start to forge a relationship with this creature. This creature dependent on you for everything in its life, trusts you to feed it each day and make sure it has clean water, because quite simply, they’ve stopped trusting in most people. But they really want to take a chance with you. And YOU want to take a chance with them. You want to see them grow and learn new things and be able to function within a pack environment. Each of them couldn’t progress as they have without someone believing in them.

It all comes around to trust. And believing in yourself. Dogs just do it differently; they live in a black & white world. It’s either all or nothing. Same with trust. All or nothing.

Why Loving Animals Is An Act of Trust For Abuse Survivors

Yesterday,  The Good Men Project  published a piece called “Thank You For Crying” about how my husband supported me by showing his true feelings when we lost our dog, Moo. I wrote it a while ago, but it got caught up in my stack of articles called, “Do I really want to say this?”

One of the reasons that I hesitated so much to share it is because I allude to the fact that Moo was really the first animal that I loved with all of my heart. People think of me as a great animal lover, but they don’t know how many years it took for me to be able to really give my heart to a pet.

Don’t get me wrong; I have diligently and lovingly cared for pets in our family before. I have even raised orphaned kittens, feeding them with a bottle around the clock. But the fostering was part of my moral code of doing good where I could, and our pets were always Pete’s pets. I remember one very close friend who lost all respect for me when he discovered that yes, I cared about our pets, but no, I was not besotted with them.

In the months since Moo has died, I have tried to figure out why I was able to give her my heart, often in the context of worrying that Yoda might never experience the same devotion.

Then I read an article that filled in the missing pieces for me. It was in the New York Times and it discussed the very strong link between abuse of animals and domestic violence. The article talked about how often abusers use the family’s pets as a tool to control their victims. It also talked about the fact that animals come and go through abusive homes so quickly that victims rarely have time to bond with them or do so at the peril of a broken heart. In other words, for many reasons, it is not safe for victims of domestic or child abuse to love animals.

We had pets when I was younger. But suffice it to say that my mother and later my step-father could have been jailed for their care of those animals.  It was so bad that a few years ago I took pity on one of their dogs and had her euthanized because she was suffering so badly from neglect and maltreatment.

Thanks to the NY Times article, I understood why it has taken so long. Moo is the first loving animal that we adopted after I severed my ties with my mother. (We briefly gave hospice care to a sick and very unhappy cat, but no one – not even Pete- bonded with him.) I think that as long as my mother was a part of my daily life, I was still guarded in ways that I was not even aware of.  And I could not give my heart to a pet as long as she was even on the periphery of my life.

I feel more safe at this time in my life than I have ever felt before. One part of that feeling of safety comes from my relationship withPete, but the other part is the absence of my mother.

But there is one other thing that I had to find trust in: myself. I had to know that I would never, not even in a moment of unbridled anger treat an animal the way that others have treated me and other vulnerable creatures. Having raised two children to adulthood convinced me that even in my most triggered or enraged moments, I will not harm a vulnerable and innocent creature.

So I am thankful for more than just Pete’s comfort. I am also thankful for his support as I became and learned that I am a person that I can trust. 

And I want to encourage everyone to respect people who give animals the kind of care required but are clearly not besotted with them. They may have a history that you do not know about, one that makes it hard for them to open their hearts to a pet.

And, let us be mindful that an abused animal is usually a sign of an abusive family. For those active in animal rescue, please read the NY Times article and consider calling child services when you see an abused animal. You may be saving a child’s life.

To help those who have been abused and those who are dealing with animals that have been abused, tomorrow  I will be posting a guest-post by the wonderful dog-whisperer Shawna Clausen.  She has been enormously helpful with our late dog, Moo, and with our new little bundle of fur, teeth and joy, Yoda.

The First Book That I Wrote Was Yellow

Trigger Warning

In the last couple of weeks, I have been trying to get to the bottom of why I am struggling so much with my first book. I keep starting something, deciding that it is quite dreadful and throwing it away. I fret; I get completely blocked, and sometimes I have panic attacks just seeing the file labeled “Book.”

Today I discovered why I am having difficulty. It all started with a directed writing assignment: “Write about the worst reception that your writing has ever received or about a time when someone tried to crush your dreams of being a writer.”

It wasn’t until I was half way through the assignment that I realized something pretty important: I am not writing my first book. This is my second.

I wrote my first book when I was still in grade school. The year that I was in the third grade, I felt responsible when my mother had a crappy birthday. I vowed that the following year I would give her a present that would please and astound her so much that it would make up for everything. And so the very next day I began working on it.

My mother had told me that she wanted nothing more than for me to use every talent that I had to serve Jesus, even though I was still just a child. So I figured that I would write an entire book of religious poems for her, one every day that would demonstrate I was doing exactly what she wanted most.

My plan was to write a poem a day, so that at the end, I would have a small book of 365 poems all about Jesus and God and things that would make her happy. Of course, it ended up being closer to one poem every week or two. I hadn’t counted on how hard it would be to find unique ways to rhapsodize about God. By the end of the year, however, I had a respectable collection of more than thirty poems. Not bad for a little kid.

I cannot remember what a single one of those poems were even about. I just remember that the book was yellow. I had found a yellow folder, the kind that has grommets down the center for notebook paper. On it I wrote my title: “A Child’s Garden of Godly Verses” in my very best handwriting. Then I carefully drew a little garden with rows of flowers all in full and vibrant bloom. And I added an illustrated poem as often as possible.

As the time came closer to give her my little book, I became more and more anxious about it. It had not been a good year for me academically. I had reached a point in school where my ADHD and dyslexia were becoming a serious problem. Of course, they were not diagnosed and were treated as rebelliousness, refusing to do good work out of a desire to displease God and I was beaten accordingly. Those problems were also making me afraid of writing, and dreading it as an academic subject. No matter how good my report was or how creatively I wrote a story, I never got a better grade than a C. And although I was having similar struggles in math, they had limited expectations for me there. But I always got in trouble for “squandering the gifts God gave me” when it came to writing.

So by the time that my mother’s birthday rolled around and it was time to give her the yellow notebook, which I had filled at first hopefully and later dutifully, I was filled with anxiety so intense it felt like anguish. I searched around frantically, trying to find another gift so that I could just slip the notebook out of the house and hide it at the bottom of the trashcan. Though even that plan worried me because I feared someone might find it at the bottom of the trash and associate it with me.

As luck would have it, my mother’s birthday was on a Sunday that year. I handed her the book, carefully wrapped in newspaper and tied with my favorite ribbon. She accepted it with all the over-effusiveness to which mothers are prone. She oohed and awed over it in a way that told me that she was glad that I loved her enough to put so much work into it, but that she was not actually impressed by the poetry. I was relieved but still wary. Sure, her mothering instincts had kept her from pointing out all but a few mistakes, and she hadn’t made a move towards punishing me. But what if she showed it to someone else?

That night, my worst fears were realized when she passed my book around the table at a church ice cream social. As I had feared, and despite my best efforts, the book was filled with spelling mistakes and what were essentially handwritten typos. I knew it was going to be bad.


The cult that I grew up in was very small, but not so small that it didn’t have a cliquish inner-circle. It met every Sunday night after the evening services for a little ice cream social at the home of the church’s queen bee.

Everyone in the Queen Bee and the pastor’s favor sat around a large table in her kitchen and gossiped. Of course, they would never call it that, and perhaps I should not either for it is too mild of a word. These were the meetings at which those absent had their characters picked apart and barbequed. This was the round table of the character assassins. It was a favorite hobby of theirs – ascribing evil motivations to benign actions. A person could go home after church on a Sunday night and everyone would still be thinking of them as an upright and God-fearing person. But if they were the subject of a Sunday night session, they would wake up the next day condemned as someone who, at best, was “not right with God.” Sometimes it was decided in these meetings that a person had demons surrounding and controlling them. The ice cream socials often ended with a “Burn the witch!” mentality.

Occasionally someone at the table would be the subject of the night’s festivities, and would leave so emotionally battered it would take months for them to recover. A mob mentality would overtake the group and even spouses would end up joining in a ritual that felt like watching a wolf-pack take down a reindeer.

Occasionally, I was the topic of conversation. This was where some of the more horrifically memorable punishments of my childhood originated. One that stands out in my mind was a punishment inflicted for forgetting what were called “baby verses.” These were passages of scriptures that I had learned when I was very young, and that I should have been able to recall and recite given nothing more than the scriptures reference (ex: John 1:12.) I frequently would panic when given a scripture reference. My mind would go completely blank. When beatings failed to improve my memory, the ice cream social posse came up with a more memorable punishment.

They reasoned that if I could not remember and recite baby verses, I must want to be treated as a baby. So they fashion a diaper for me out a dishtowel and forced me to spend the night wearing that and nothing else. The shame of being a grade school girl forced to wear a diaper was compounded by the shame of being nearly naked. They had ingrained modesty rules into me from a small child. So it was mind-shatteringly shaming to be nearly naked in front of them, to be forced to sit on their laps like a baby when I wanted nothing more than to at least be allowed to slink down into the scrap of dignity afforded by a chair. That was far worse for me than the insult they added to injury, mocking my roll of baby fat and any babyish mannerisms they could find. As I aged, each time that this punishment was inflicted was more traumatic than the last.


Psychologists tell us that memory works in mysterious ways, that sometimes two memories united by the same very strong emotion can become entangled in ways that make them hard to untangle.

I think that is what must have happened for me. Because in my memory of the night that my mother showed my book around, I am naked except for a dishtowel while they rip apart my book for over an hour. I am nearly naked while they tell me how my book disappoints and dishonors God because of the mistakes and poor spelling. In my memory, I am nearly naked and intensely vulnerable when they tell me that it is a horribly shameful thing to be unable to spell correctly, when they tell me that no one will ever read my writing because I spell poorly, that I will be lucky to get a job in an office but that I will be fired just as soon as they find out that I cannot spell. And I am dressed in a tea-towel when I am convicted of not loving God enough to do my best in service for Him.

My punishment for writing my first book was that the following summer I spent six hours a day five days a week writing out every word that I had misspelled in the book correctly ten times in a row. I received one blow with a cutting board across my legs every time that I transposed the word. Transposing a word from the dictionary to my page, which I often did, got me ten blows and then I had to do it all over again the next day.

I finished paying for the mistakes of my first book two weeks before school went back into session. It was barely long enough for the bruises to heal.


When I was in high school, my mother happened across the little yellow book as she was packing to move into the home of her new husband. “Do you want this old thing?” she asked me in an offhanded tone, as if she wasn’t handing me the most shameful manuscript in the world.

I thought about how ashamed I would be if someone found it and I quietly nodded. I hid it in a spot where I knew no one would look, a box of maxi-pads. I transferred it from hiding spot to hiding spot over the years. My husbands never saw it or my kids.

Two years ago we had a fire, and the restoration specialists found it where I had hidden it, between the front and backing of an old throw rug I kept stashed in the back of the linen cupboard. The guy looked at me and it oddly, but asked only if I wanted them to restore it or if it could be photographed and disposed of. I acted as if I wasn’t quite sure what it was and looked at in puzzlement until he was distracted. Then I quietly slipped out of the room. I emptied both of the cat’s litter pans, folded the book into a square and placed it in the center so no one picking up the bag could feel it. I double-bagged it, and then dropped it not into the regular trash, which could be gone through on the way to the dump, but in the one labeled toxic waste.


Now I get to write my second book. I still can’t spell worth a shit and my dysgraphia still makes my work challenging. I know that trolls will sit around in a cyber ice cream social and pan it endlessly. And there is even the possibility that I might even feel punished at some point for having written it.

But the worst has already happened to me as a writer in a free society (barring a Rushdie incident.) I have been shamed beyond the place that I thought that I could bear it and I have been beaten for what I have written.

And I figure it this way: My second book has to get a better reception than my first.

Even if it doesn’t, I am no longer a little girl clothed in nothing more than a dishtowel and vulnerability. I have my dignity, my sense of purpose and the love of non-abusive people.

And despite their predictions, I am a writer. People do want to read me despite my occasional typos.

Here is the promise that I make to myself and to that little kid in the dishtowel: I will never again allow myself to become so ashamed of my writing that I hide it in cat shit. I will embrace my mistakes along with my victories. And no one will ever put me in a dishtowel again.

When You Give a Writer Affirmations…

I was given these affirmations as a part of a program for writing recovery. I was asked to repeat these twice a day and write any “blurts” or automatic talk-back that I have to these affirmation.

So, of course, the affirmations are becoming all about the blurts. They are turning into a comedy routine in my head. Feel free to add your own smart-ass comments. We can turn it into a drinking game called “How many times can you invoke Syria?”

1. My dreams come from the divine and the divine has the power to accomplish them.
a. I make it a practice not to have dreams. They never turn out particularly well.
b. And the God would do better to intervene in Syria than with me.

2. As I write and listen to the still small voice, I will be led.
a. Unless of course that still small voice is the crazy taking over.
b. Being led doesn’t mean that what I write will be good.
3. Creativity is the Great Creator’s will for me.
Can’t I just be a martyr? That has to be easier.
4. My writing heals myself and others.
a. Or what I write is a big pile of horse poop that makes my wounds and other people’s fester.
b. And what if I don’t need to heal but to grow the hell up? What if I am exactly what the Telegraph accused me of being: a self-pitying whiney looser unable to develop emotionally past the teenage angst years, and that I really do deserve to have my work called (as they did) the worst article of the year.

5. I am allowed to nurture my artist.
a. Seriously, how spoiled does my inner artist need to be? Is there a limit here? If my inner artists needs a massage, a bottle of vodka and chocolate cake, do I just chalk it up as nurturing?
b. Don’t I already get enough nurturing? My family is always nice to me, and I have good friends. That is more than most people get.
c. And really, as my writing idol said, my work is “undisciplined.” My artist needs a drill sergeant to stand over it every morning and yell: “Does da wittle sensatif awtist wanna get its fucking ass out of the fucking bed and do its goddamned job already?

6. Through the use of a few simple tools, my creativity will flourish.
a. Or I will become self-indulgent and pretentious.
b. These tools can be yours for the low, low price of $19.95 (per month, in perpetuity)

7. Through the use of my creativity I will serve the God.
a. That is rather lofty thinking there. At best, I might tickle a few people’s fancy.
b. God kicked me out of service and told me to get a life. I am under strict orders now to get my own shit together before I go meddling with other people’s lives.

8. My creativity always leads me to truth and love.
a. Yeah, right, because writers are known for being warm and loving cuddle-bugs.
b. What is truth even? I can’t write the entire truth about anything because I don’t even know the truth. To tell my own truth is to deny another person’s.

9. My creativity leads me to forgiveness and self-forgiveness.
a. And in similar news, the grass is blue, the sky is green and George W. Bush just confessed he was so drunk throughout his presidency that he just left everything in Cheney’s hands.
10. There is a divine plan of goodness for me.
a. There is a divine plan of goodness? Oh goody! Something else for me to cock up.
b. Really, where was this plan when life was kicking the ever-living shit out of me? If that was part of the plan, I am not impressed with the Divine.

11. There is a divine plan of goodness for my work.
a. That sounds an awful lot like presuming to be the mouthpiece for God. And that always works out well for everyone involved.
b. The idea that God has a special plan for my life is also called “the perfect will of God” and it has been the bane of my existence. The real problem with this affirmation is that I might believe it.

12. As I listen to the creator within, I am led.
a. Right off a cliff. Seriously, following my intuition is right about as often as a coin toss.
b. That is a fucking dangerous way to live.

c. And what of the people in Syria right now? Was their problem that they failed to listen to the creator within?
13. As I listen to my creativity I am led to my creator.
Seriously, can we throttle back a bit on the new age woo-woo crap?
14. I am willing to write.
Eh, more resigned than anything.
14. I am willing to learn to let myself write.
I had better not be a slow learner.
15. I am willing to let the God write through me.
a. Good luck with making those pitches: “I would like to write a piece telling your readers what God wants them to know.”
16. I am willing to be of service through my writing.
a. No blurts for this one other than that I hope that I am able to continue doing that and not be a flake or a Hugo. Oops, that was a blurt.
17. I am willing to experience my creative energy.
I am not exactly sure what this means. But I am dangerous when I start playing with electricity.
16. I am willing to use my writing talents.
The entire teaspoon.