I’m Carrie. Hi. This is (some of) who I am.

For starters, I love the things that can be made of words. We string and stack them into curses and haikus and prayers and texts and wedding vows and recipes for cherry pie and birthday cards and last wills and testaments so that we may say to each other this is who I am or this is what I love or this is where I hurt or this is how to make a cherry pie. We use words so that we might be known, and feel a little closer. We use words so that we can ink the bigness of love and grief and loss and sex and death and beauty onto a page, so that we might understand those things of Life better, clearer in the outline of black on white.

I’m a writer who is working on a book about things that don’t make sense to me yet. And I’m a writer who helps women voice themselves through the expression and nurturance of their work. And I’m a writer who sometimes publishes erotic micro-fiction under a nom de plume.

I’m also an INFJ Scorpio, a wearer of yellow sundresses, a woman who remembers the names of flowers but forgets the names of people (ack!), a lover of opera and Chagall and semi-colons and the way the juice of fresh-cut lime smells on fingertips. I talk to trees. I blush easily. I am a wife and a mother, and I have feelings about that.

 

What you’ll find here are the sorts of things I sometimes write in margins and on cafe napkins and in my head and in my yellow journal that was a gift from a thoughtful friend. These are the words – love letters and thank-yous mostly – that have needed a home with a few friendly eyes to read them. To make them feel shared. So you can know me a little, and our stories can find the places they overlap, in the curves of black-on-white serifs.

Welcome. And thank you,

Carrie