within chest, flowers climb
worry weavers, petals purple
down drooping, up growing
Valkyrie songs, deep humming
no, deeper
reach another
another
one more
press fingers together
pollen falls, tight places
explodes out, spreads
green shrugs
we know nothing
I’ve taken another leap forward in my creative journey and self-published my first book. I’ve spent the last few months rewriting every story, working with a book cover artist, figuring out how to format a book, and taking on each challenge as it presented itself—and there were many! I had no idea what this journey would look like, and although I’m still in the weeds of doing new things, I’m ready to share it with you.
I’m thrilled and grateful to present my debut book, Watering Words: 52 Short Stories.
Isn’t it beautiful! The official release date is April 27, but you can pre-order it now! What you get if you pre-order:
A portion of my book sales will go to support my favorite nonprofit, G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento. My daughter attended their camps for eight years, and it changed her life. Please, check them out and consider a donation. Right now, more than ever, we need organizations helping girls find their voice.
If you ARE local, you can also attend my book release party at 1 p.m. on Sunday, April 27 at A Seat of the Table Books in Elk Grove, California. Not only is this my favorite independent bookstore, but they strive to create a “place that is safe and affirming for all identities.” Seriously, I’ve never felt so comfortable in any store. They’re tremendous supporters of local authors and will carry my book on their shelves.
Did you catch that? My book will be IN A BOOKSTORE. {Pinch me}
Now, what’s this book all about? Readers of my blog will recognize most of these stories from the writing challenge I did two years ago, but they’ve all undergone extensive rewriting and editing. Here’s the blurb from the back cover of the book:
The Blinking Day arrives for a mother after she drops her kids off at school. A starving child follows a rabbit to a house of candy. Orange trees kill a father. An alien must learn one true thing. A girl wants to be a fish tank. An old couple paints with blood. Apple stars unlock memories. Goldilocks gets what’s coming to her.
Written over one year, Bridgette Kay’s debut collection crosses genres and time as it explores the complexities of being human. With a unique ability to capture deep emotion, she tells fictional stories through the lens of lived truth. Read one story a week or devour them all at once. Your next favorite adventure starts now.
Real talk. This post feels big and scary. While I’m excited to have this book in the world, it also comes with all the insecurities and fear of being a creative. Will people buy it? If they do, will they read it? If they do, will they like it? I’ve had many moments over the last few months where I’ve said, “I’m not ready for this.” I’m not. I’ll never be.
There’s a creative on Instagram I love named Amie McNee. She just published a book titled We Need Your Art: Stop Messing Around and Make Something. I’ve got a copy beside me as I type this, and I keep flipping through and reading her words. “Imposter Syndrome is a clear sign from the universe that you’ve leveled up, baby.” “Other people will have made art similar to your art. It’s not a cause for panic. It isn’t a threat. It’s proof of market. There’s room for you.” “Nothing truly wonderful is made without first being a little bit cringe.” Her words are exactly what I need to read right now. Thank you, Amie.
It feels cringe to ask you to buy my book. It feels scary to say I’m proud of myself. But, I’m saying both. I finally finished a creative project and I’m going to let myself celebrate.
If you are considering self-publishing, starting a blog, or any act of creativity—go for it! I’ve got people coming up to me excited about my book. A friend posted on FB, “You are bringing light into the world, light that will help me on my way. Congratulations!” and another said “Just the best thing ever!!! And it’s about time!” How cool is that?
We need art right now. Make your art. Use your voice. We need you.
And buy my book. It will look pretty on your bookshelf 🙂
Cover design: Vivian González Zúñiga
wetwalking she crept
into darkened oldwoods
bumblebush wept
missing sweetgoods
teardropleaves watch
fairies hiddenbreath wish
forgivenot bitter scotch
weave hopeful freshstitch
sisterthorns together cry
tornfists stitched anew
silkhands won’t comply
our earthbodies stay true
After years of regularly posting and commenting here, I think I’ve reached a place of burnout. I haven’t been fully present like I used to be. It’s not fun.
To get myself out of this slump, and at the advice of my wonderful writer’s group, I’ve decided to self-publish my 52 short stories into a collection available by Christmas. Having a physical book, my book, in my hands will be a dream come true. I need this to move forward.
In the meantime, thank you to those who continue to show up and cheer me on. Your comments are what keeps me going. I hope you’ll consider ordering a copy when it’s available. I can’t even tell you what that would mean. I’m giddy thinking of it.
While I do the hard work of making it happen, here are some photos from my recent road trip. Let me know if you have a favorite and have a fantastic week.
inhale my darling
take fire inside
remember burning bright
before plunging under
take boxed somethings
here and there
make golden space
for not-so-quiet permission
don’t look down. see
bending. almost bright
sunlit joy. trampled upon
still alive. resilient petals
living foxtail sharp. step
around. i’m happy here.
what if i stay
this way
half-closed half-open
will bees still drink
my nectar sipping
indecision fear shame
burrowing where pets
lay buried again
bleeding nail beds soil
filled with salt
or must i open
anyway light bright
bird food nourishing
what if i am
I write because I want to understand. I write because I don’t understand. I write anyway. I write to think. I write to feel. I write because my body is mostly water.
I write to translate water. I write like I’m swimming. I write deeper and deeper to find my breath. I write to remember I never lost it. I write the silence of being underwater. I write rhythm. I write tides. I write endless grains of sand. I write to honor the twisting cypress trees and my grandmothers. I write because the moon doesn’t give up on me. I write because I don’t give up on me.
I write because I was a child with an imaginary friend. I write to remember her. I write to remember me. I write stories moving through my body. I write to hold them tighter. I write to let them go.
I write because you didn’t see me. I write because you did. I write to hold your hand in the dark. I write a thousand tiny hearts in the margin of my notebook.
I write to play. I write to dance. I write because a song made me cry.
I write because I’m afraid I’ll forget everything. I write because I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten. I write to leave my children pieces of me to hold onto when I’m gone.
I write because the world is filled with contradictions. I write because I’m filled with contradictions.
I write to understand how gravity and time change depending on who I stand beside. I write as one who has been hurt and who has hurt others. I write to understand forgiveness.
I write because my fingers and jaw need to unclench. I write because the wind told me to.
I write because of beautiful journals and smooth pens. I write because words cost nothing and I’m broke. I write lies. I write truths. I write as if you have been by my side the entire time.
I write because I hope you will like me. I write because it doesn’t matter if you do.
I write even though the words must be extracted with bloody fingertips and it hurts and I get angry. I write certain you will figure out I’m a fraud, but hoping you won’t care. I write because sometimes I touch something like spirit, like source, and it’s intoxicating. I write because we are all this vulnerable.
I write as one who learns and forgets over and over. I write as if I’m going to never stop. I write because someday I will.
I write because words, like me, are imperfect, and yet I still love them.
My good friend Neil challenged his readers to write a list of why they write. I turned 47 today and I decided to celebrate it by answering. I’d be honored if you took up his call and wrote your own list. Let me know if you do and thank you for reading.
find me where winter waters flow
honey thick. where ferns weave baskets
cradling colored stones. listen for songs
dripping down cave walls, tiny fairy feet
dancing delicately on crushed shells, soft
foamy voices calling your name. follow
them. do not despair as earthen gravity
releases you. let go. reach through murky
darkness until our fingertips merge. hold
tight as our toes taste stars. I’m beside
you watching our bubbly breath connect
inside and outside. beautifully untethered.
hold this, please
while I wander underwater
where softness grows
where muted heartbeats
dance
look closer, bend
see tiger stripes gleaming
where fire resides
where boldness bellows
sings
become mermaid, dive
unfold each lovely bloom
where water renews
where bells chime
live
Bridgette Tales 