An Open Letter to Tina Olson-Wilkins:

A Writer’s Bio.

Photo by: Tina Olson-Wilkins

Hello Tina;

I’m writing to you today to hopefully explain a few things that are currently happening to us here. It has been two weeks since you signed up as a writer and contributor to Medium and in that time you have done a very good job of disciplining yourself by writing one or two pieces to publish everyday. You should be very excited to jump on board with Illumination as I see you as a good match for such a broad and successful publication.

It’s been a long time since you forced yourself to express anything, also, it’s been a year, August 3rd, since you cleaned up your addictions and took a vow of somewhat-silence. This time, the road to sobriety was learning to abandon reactions, take more deep breaths, and be grateful for waking up each morning without regret.

I still can’t figure out all of the details that led to a disastrous relapse. You were doing ok for almost four years and suddenly the raging snowball turned into an avalanche. You had to spit to find your way back up. You had to dig through the ice and melting snow only to emerge drenched, frozen-ashamed-guilty, and older.

Those drunken memories were on repeat and flooding led to this time of floating to keep from drowning. You had to doggie-paddle to move the water away. In the river of scorn and discourse or algae and sand, feet stuck, arms waving.

Nobody is going to rescue you. You are both alone and not alone. The geometric patterns of your matrix, born of strife and survival, is a you-problem. The para-troopers of self-reliance are sick of your shit and have declared no more, never more.

You had to remember Edgar Allan Poe and your ambitions to recite and create in seventh grade. You had to remember sitting on the front steps the Corcoran School of Art that first day. Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. You made them all call you ‘Icky’ and a legend was born. You had to remember playing guitar and singing your songs in coffee shops and on boardwalks. You had to remember holding your four children for the first time and cooking grilled cheese while they watched Totoro. You had to remember wearing out your boots canvassing for Democracy. You had to remember all of those good things because they are gone and if you remembered only the bad things the undertow would pull you to a Virginia Woolf death, pockets full of stones. And we can’t have that just yet.

Not yet. Because no matter how many times you try to die high, your God is not through with you yet. You haven’t created enough yet. You haven’t earned anything yet. And that all comes as a relief, because you KNOW you’re not done yet!

Unfortunately, I don’t have advice moving forward, but I trust you know what not to do. You’ve tried and failed at so much that the only logical path ahead is to succeed. You know we don’t measure success by material things, but a little chump-change would be nice if not life-altering. So tally-ho and sally-forth!

Sincerely, your biggest critic,

Me.