I have loved writing since before I can even remember (as starts every writer’s bio). Mom would tell you I walked around with a notebook and pencil since I was two. When I was five, I wrote my first book. And by “book”, I mean the front and back of a single piece of orange construction paper where my words were written in columns — sentences reading from top to bottom, left to right.
I have started and deleted about seven blogs up until this point… I never felt they were good enough. “Good enough” for who… I always felt the urge to write, so I would whip up some try-to-be-clever post and click publish. Obviously with this mentality, the blogs were short lived and I was back to square one. Up until this point, I have been posting for others; posting to be read, posting to make others laugh, fingers crossed at being the next big Mommy Blogger come 2025. But what about me? My long-lived passion for writing far exceeds any friendships I have, any care what strangers in the universe think of me… so why couldn’t I just write a blog for me? My thoughts, my words, my mostly awkward personality.
In September, Daniel moved into our cozy little white apartment. We now live here together on East Racine Avenue. My greatest struggle when wanting to create a blog has been coming up with a title. I know I didn’t want to use my name because that would seem like I have it all together which I most certainly do not. I wanted the title to reflect where I was now as well as where I am going. I wanted the title to be as fluid as life is. Anywhere. Our current living space on East Racine combined with the fluidity of anywhere — no matter where we roam, we are always East of something — and this blog, my blog, was given life.
I am still getting over my need for others’ approval and I am trying to write more for myself — to satisfy my mind’s desire to be creative and reflective, my hand’s craving to write, while also just jotting down quick notes to look back on and reminisce about.
Cause in the future, these will be the good ol’ days.