I’m Jesse. I don’t make my bed, but I make really good pie. I love people, all kinds of people, and I need a lot of time alone. As wild and beautiful as they are in their own way, cities squeeze my heart until it hurts, but in the forest or the mountains, on the lake or the river, on horseback or just behind my dog; I’m home. I love pearls and opals and whiskey and cigars. Zoos and aquariums make me cry no matter how noble their cause and sometimes I get into bad moods that last years. I struggle with small talk and am always thrilled when I meet someone else who feels the same way and we can skip it straight for the good stuff. Oh, and I write. I’ve always had to write.
I’ve been writing poetry and prose and whatever else since I was eight, but I’m terrified to say I’m a writer. Like it’s a badge I haven’t earned. Like if I say it I’ll be an immediate failure. I write and I share and I always hope that I connect with someone out there who feels or has felt the same way and even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter. I have to write it anyway.
It’s taken a long time, a lot of encouragement, and a lot of connection for me to still be the exact same amount of terrified, and move forward anyway. And today I’m moving forward anyway. I’m a writer.
This blog is my soul’s playground–poetry, prose, pictures, thoughts, ideas, moments, anything I want. This blog is my parlor, where I invite you all in to come and sit awhile, share coffee and words with me, bring your friends, bring your wine. And if you come here and something strikes you, share it. And if you come here and something moves you, let me know. And if you come here quietly to think and feel without being seen or heard, keep coming back. And if you want to tell me something about my work or ask a question, send me a message. Any of it, all of it, none of it, it’s all good, I’ll be here writing anyway. I have to write it anyway. I’m a writer.