I try not to betray my words.  But either out of necessity or inability, I do.  And in those moments, I know that I am somehow denying the world (?) of something important.  So I try not to let that happen very often.

The relationship I have with my words is like a mostly on, sometimes off affair.  I truly believe that my words decide what they want to say and assemble themselves prior to my knowledge, then funnel to my consciousness when the time is right.  I say this because there have been times when my words spill out onto the page and I can swear to you that the precise arrangements and word choices coalesce in such a way that if I had stayed up all night, I wouldn’t have been able to get it half as right. My words breathe me, they write me and they challenge me.

The betrayal on my end comes from my inability to grab onto that slip of genius that falls into my consciousness or my reluctance to believe that what is being written is coming from me.  Imagine waking up one day an brewing that single cup of coffee that has eluded you for years or baking that scrumptious pie you’ve been trying to bake for the past ten years – that is how I often feel when I have been able to capture the mood, tone, context of what it is I intended on writing.

More often than not, I ignore my words to the point that at those 3am dawnings, when I am without pen or paper, they break from my mental holding tank and flood me awake.  I’ve begun writing many stories that never make it past the light of day.  And if I do happen to remember to choice few sentences by the time I am able to write, most often the feeling or mood of the piece is lost to me.

Very rare still are those moments, like now, when I am up, I am in the mode, the mood is clear to me but my arms, my fingers don’t want to cooperate.  It is those moments when it is that I feel the most disabled.  It is looking down at my weak hands trying to push them beyond their limits, knowing that I will probably have to forefit writing tonight, that I see the betrayal to my words the most.

I try not to think of all the times I spent working a job I did not like, if only partially because I didn’t think my writings were strong enough for me to survive on.  I try not to think how I had so much more dexterity and strength to write then when it was for someone else and not now, when it is for me.  Instead, I try to pack my words, back into their mental holding tank until I am physically more able to put them down on paper.

My book, Love & Disability: A Lesbian’s Ode is my tribute to my words and them not being betrayed by my body or ineptitude. It’s a collection of short stories, featuring disabled women in various fluxes of love, loving and being loved.  I write about what it is to be in a wheelchair, to be unable to do some of the things “normal” persons do but to still be human in need and desire.  I write about the women who love these disabled women and how much of a challenge and ultimate reward it is to be with them, not because of the disability but despite it, that their hearts, patience and understanding ultimately help to make things work.

And so… I hope I have done my words justice by creating this collection of shorts and I hope that you all will find enjoyment in reading them.

-S