I've always loved watercolors. The wells of single pigments, neatly organized, packed full to the brim. But then, when you add water, the overflowing, the intermixing, forming the perfect beautiful mess.
That's how I imagine I've always come off to most people—tightly packaged, perfectly polished, each part of my personality locked in its own portioned container. But internally, I've always been bleeding bright, colorful chaos.
Writing is how I make sense of myself. It's also how I make sense of the world, my relationships, and my seemingly disparate experiences.
It's how I encourage my students to make sense of their own lives. And how I've tried to paint into words the stories of others with which I've been entrusted.
Where does one story begin? Where does another end? And how can we stop telling our stories until we reach the canvas edge?