dear husband-to-be,

i am becoming increasingly aware that the things that make me an interesting writer (i can say that, no? interesting? let's go with it) make me a less than skilled liver-of-life.

i spin stories and fill in the blanks and make illogical leaps that i then get to justify. and that justification is awfully tricky and awfully fun when done on the white blank page (or screen, as it turns out).

it's the best part, actually: making real the illogical. making true the impossible.

and yet, in life, this contortionist's act is...less than helpful.

i'm working on it, on taking things at face value. and trusting that if someone says something, they mean it.

but what this really means is, i get insecure. terribly, so. and i may not always be able to distinguish if we've talked about something or if it's just a conversation i lived in my mind.

so, do me a favor won't you? squeeze my hand. and pull me the three feet down to solid ground.

love, love,

the one hoping she learns to plant her feet before you find her