Identity Whiplash

So I'm driving to work really tired after the book-writing extravaganza of the previous week, and I hear a song. This song: it's perfect. For the play I'm writing. For former prisoners. I make a mental note to do something with it as I carry my boxing gear into the Y.

I teach a boxing demo. One guy hits a little hard, and of course there's no way I'm going to stop him, but now my ribs are a bit sore. There's a welt on my arm. Afterwards he asks me to teach him a few new exercises for his quads. I know he's a former wrestler, MMA enthusiast, and recent strongman competitor, so I tailor my suggestions accordingly. This is right up my alley.

We're doing what looks a lot like praying on our knees when another guy says, Hey, it's like that nun in the Saturday Night Live skit. You know, with your pigtails.

I'm like, Yeah, thanks a lot, and he says, No, it's a compliment: she's funny, like you.

Funny writing boxing girl. In pigtails. That's me.


I didn't want to get back on Facebook. Frankly, I did it just for my book--apparently, authors need "platforms," which is a fancy way of saying I have access to many people.

I didn't want access to many people. I was happy in my quiet. Now: "like" this, comment that, by people from all parts of my life, as well as some I barely know.

Who's my writing audience? My audience here, on this blog, I feel I know: I can tell you what's on my heart--maybe curse a little, too--and all's good.

Facebook: Who am I speaking with, please? How do I post a thought that is relevant to my friends, my neighbor, the guys at my boxing gym and my mother?

No need to overthink it, you say. It's just for fun.

My mind doesn't work that way. I need to know who YOU are before I can write to you.

Speaking of which...who are you? Who's out there?


  1. funny writing boxing girl, in pigtails. i dig it!

    you know who i am. commenter come lately. ;)

  2. Late or not, I'm just glad you're here.


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