She was one of those ever-so-rare kind of people.
She never believed the success and accomplishments of others would take away from her own.
She gave her expertise generously and offered her support freely.
She was one of the greatest mentors I've ever had.
I haven't been able to write the way I want to, or take the chances I hoped I would.
I feel like she was helping me become that kind of writer, and it can't happen without her.
Then I was invited to fly to the east coast and insert myself into a small group of talented writers, photographers, and musicians—where surely my shortcomings would be put on display—and I didn't think I could go.
Heartache made my feet heavy and fear told me to stand still.
Until her words came back and grabbed me by the hand,
I'm always surprised when I offer to read someone's work and they don't send it;
I wish more people believed in themselves.
And I felt her pull me towards the person offering me a place to go.
Generous and supportive.
Hopeful that I'll accept her invitation to believe in myself.
And I'm scared that it won't work, and I'm scared that it will.
I'll walk to the ocean tomorrow and throw my tears into the waves, while I let myself imagine the writer I might become without her.
And then I'll find my words in their hiding place and throw them into the clouds, where I know she'll be there to catch them.