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Freewrite No. 1: A weird, word vomit-y love letter (or whatever) to that red pinafore dress on Etsy and all the magical unicorns who know how to sew.

Updated: Aug 23

I fall in and out of hobbies. Always have. One week, it’s embroidering flowers and cheeky phrases onto linen; the next, it's Branding for Sex and Buyer Psychology.


This week, it’s learning how to sew. I’ve decided I want to make my own clothes.


Spoiler alert: Most writers these days are just as poor as the quintessential writers (read: struggling artists) of all the yesterdays since yesterday was given its name.


Life’s been a little like the Wild West lately. How I imagine the Wild West might have been or still could be, anyway. Or perhaps a better version of it.


(Who knows? Who cares? It’s not the point.)


I’ve been “freelancing” exclusively for barely a year now. (Is that right?) Jesus. It honestly feels like longer, which makes whatever I was about to say about being a freelancer pretty fucking dumb. So scratch that, I suppose.


Let’s re-pivot the learning-to-sew thing: I’m grateful to have something outside of my writer’s journey to latch onto. Because I think that much is as important as the act of writing (and the journey) itself.


Maintaining your personal identity while simultaneously—dare I use this cliche? fuck it—wearing ‘all the hats’ that exist outside of your personal identity is not simple. The life (read: the career, though I have a weird issue with that word) I am choosing is not (dare I say it?)


f o r - t h e - f a i n t - o f - h e a r t.


And that’s fine. I’ll get out of my way soon. I always do.


It’s just by the time I do it this time—I really want to have learned how to fucking sew, too.


The closet full of pinafore dresses and wide-legged trouser pants I’ve been dreaming of is so damn hard to resist, especially when you basically have zero dollars in your free-to-spend account.

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