Okay, my creativity is bursting into some other outlets than writing this week. @Jezabelle Jackson and I recorded our first podcast. At first we thought Monday night would open into a group setting, but I think we’ll keep the Podcast and the Community Gathering separate. We can gather for conversation, quiet writing together, or what have you. I’m thinking Saturday morning coffee chat? Sunday? Middle of the night for us night owls? What would work for you?

Is anyone else here a Hamilton fan? There are so many moments in the show about writing your way out of messes — frustrations, tight spots, trying to figure things out when there isn’t a clear path forward. I’ve always loved that about him. And yes, I have absolutely gone hoarse singing along to the soundtrack in the car on long drives. By myself. Oh yes I have.

I think in color. Fuchsia and chartreuse are pure pop. Deep purple is midnight. Somewhere along the way I learned that 3am belongs to eccentrics and poets and writers and lovers — awake after midnight, when imaginations soar. That explained a lot. Orange brings warmth and yes. And lately, taupe — a color that lends a poetic charm when paired with black wool and scarves. My mind is always writing, even when I’m not. Even when I’m working, cooking, cleaning, or wiped out on the couch at the end of the day. Most of what I write starts small — a tug, a line, a moment that won’t let go. So I’m sharing things here in color. Not as rules. Just as a way of holding orbit. Purple (constellations) — quotes and shared wisdom, places where words have already lived. Purple (open sky) — essays I've sat with, revised, and feel ready to share. Pink — announcements, dates, when and where we gather. Head in the clouds — prompts and play. Taupe — inward wisps: wonderings, questions, quiet weather. Green — outward wisps: things noticed, overheard, glimpsed. Those outward moments don’t ask to be kept to ourselves — they’ve spoken to us, nudged us, kept us awake. Something in them felt alive, lit us up, softened us, restored our faith in beauty or humanity on a hard day. That’s not random. That’s the muse tapping on the shoulder, asking us to carry the magic a little farther. We write. Or we don’t — and things tend to go sideways. Most of us know the cycle. The tug. The avoidance. The sincere vow that we’re committed this time. And then drifting again. Writers are especially good at avoiding the one thing we know keeps us sane. We’ll circle the page for years, until life feels louder and harder than it needs to be. Eventually, we come back in something like desperation and write our way out, swearing we’ll stay faithful this time. Until we wander again. That’s why this space exists — to hold orbit. For writers who drift, return, and begin again. I look forward to hearing about the things that wisp, jostle, tug gently, or run collision courses through your mind. The half-thoughts. The stray lines. The moments that won’t leave you alone yet.

Oh @Shevie Ryan - and Oh @Alexandra Hannah - such dear, familiar faces from the absolute heyday of the Rogue Poetry Slam. You were witnesses and collaborators in a beautiful, electric artistic community here, and it means more to me than I can say to see you now, in this space, curious about what this might become with me. Thank you for being here. Truly.