The back roads to Eatonville take a little longer, but instead of the dreadful accordion traffic of I-4, the road is smooth going. There are glimpses of homes tucked behind trees, trampolines and freshly trimmed shrubbery. Hints of lives lived.
At the time, I had recently stopped drinking coffee and was three days past a stomach bug that made my sobriety possible. Still, I was weak, groggy, and miserable. Happy to be out of my house, but not altogether happy.
On the stereo, a narrator read Zora Neale Hurston’s autobiography. She talked about her childhood, her parents, and Eatonville’s inception. I was half listening. Half in my own head, considering my own life, wondering how I would tell the story.
My friend, driving, listened intently. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she, like me, was caught in a maladaptive spiral of thoughts. Probably not. She was drinking coffee.
I never do anything fun, I thought, shifting in my seat. I never take any risks. Even as I thought this, I felt the irony. Here I was, on a roadtrip across Florida with my equally bookish friend, chasing the path of long dead woman.
Sure, roadtrips aren’t risks in the traditional sense, but for me, for the scared shell-less snail of me, it was a risk. For some of us, a risk looks like BASE jumping. For others, a risk looks like going to the movies alone.
This is part of my self-loathing. I want to the Walter Mitty at the end of the movie, but I am the Walter Mitty from the first five minutes.
Adjusting my shoulder strap, I scolded myself for being miserable, for complaining, for not enjoying the adventure I was on. Outside the window, a city opened up. The pale light of the morning sun glinted off large glass-paned buildings. Roads twisted and tangled, some climbing upward, crossing over the others. Everywhere, people traveling where they should go, taking it one turn at a time.
We came to a stop light. Above us, in a perfect swoop, a bald eagle.
My word of the year will be risk, I decided.
To be clear: Small risks. Like giving up coffee or standing up for myself at work or writing bad poems on post cards and sending them in the mail. Risks like taking my creativity seriously. Like going on adventures with my kids, even though it’s hard, and by the end we might all be crying.
Risks aren’t supposed to be fun in the moment. They’re meant to be scary. Challenging. The difference between me and a sky-diver is not that they find risk-taking easy, it is that they have chosen not to live in fear, and I have chosen to stay afraid.
Bravery accumulates by taking one risk at a time. Eventually, I won’t be so afraid to live my own life. Or at least I won’t let the fear stop me.
What’s your word?
Sarina
I wasn’t going to read it. I’m not a sci-fi girl (or so I thought). But when I saw that Ryan Gosling was going to be in the movie, my interest was piqued. Also, loved The Martian (the movie, haven’t read the book). I thought, this might suck, but I put it on hold at the library anyway.
It did not suck. Not one bit of suckage in this book.
Would I say this is the best book I read in 2025? Absolutely, 1000%, no questions asked, AND I read two Hazelwood books and ya’ll know how I feel about Ali.
The thing is, I read all over the map. I love a self-help, a thriller, a classic, a romance. I can get down with an adventurous middle grade novel when the mood hits. But I don’t read sci-fi. Like. Not at all.
Now I do. Take a morally grounded white man (add imagery of Ryan Gosling) and throw him into the most romantic (yet platonic? I’m not buying it) relationship with an alien creature you’ve ever heard of. Then, make those besties accurate expressions of genuine human(?) decency and the purest form of true love.
I can’t explain it to you without spoilers, but Rocky is my number one book boyfriend of all time AND he looks like a spider. Personality is THAT perfect. You gotta read it. Then come with me to the movie. (Don’t forget to purchase it through your local indie book seller.)
Poetry Post Cards
The first and (possibly) most intimidating risk I will be taking this year is launching a mail club. While a friend and I are in the thick of developing artwork, planning themes, and drafting poetry for our mail club, I am going to be doing a soft launch with a very minimal version: Poetry Post Cards.
How it Works
If you should choose to subscribe, each month you would receive (via snail mail) a post card with an original poem by yours truly. It will probably be a very bad poem. I can almost guarantee it. But you will get a poem in the mail, probably with a personalized note, and definitely with a lot of gratitude sent via vibes and post-stamps.
Why I’m Doing This
Obviously, first and foremost, because it is a risk to send creative work into the world, and my word of the year is risk. But also because I love poetry. I think poetry matters. I think poetry makes people present in their lives and with themselves, and is the most aggressive attack against consumerism there can be because poems are not easy to swallow. They take time and meditation and effort. I want a life full of poetry, and I want to share that with you.
How to Subscribe— Click this button.
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