Opening the soft archive.
This piece came from 2016—a vision, a memory, a myth I wrote into being.
Back then, I was just beginning to touch the places where shame and creativity had tangled.
Now, I return with gentler hands.
To remember.
To come home.
To say to the part of me who trembled at her own voice:
You are safe now. Speak.
The Writing Wolf
June 14, 2016
You came to me in a vision.
I saw you when I touched the pain that lives in my writing—
the fear of criticism, the ache of shame.
You were there.
You had always been there.
Back in first grade, when others raced ahead of me toward the finish line—
with their polished penmanship and new ink pens,
while I was still tying my shoes at the starting line.
Ink was gold for the winners.
Graphite was for the defeated.
As they crossed into glory, turning their pencil impermanence into eternal ink,
I was left behind, the only one still with a pencil.
I was not just slow—I was marked.
You appeared as a white wolf.
Huge, ragged, your fur tangled and dirty.
Your claws scraped the linoleum as you stalked past our desks,
checking on our progress.
When you reached mine, you turned away with a slow shake of your head.
And in the unbearable silence—where the classroom clock ticked like a guillotine—
you made it clear: I would be next.
You grabbed me by the neck.
Threw me into the corner.
A warning to others.
I could smell the rot on your teeth.
Feel your breath on my cheek.
I didn’t struggle.
I knew what happened to the slow ones.
But something distracted you.
Your snout hovered over my pocket.
You sniffed.
I reached in and slowly pulled out a crumbled cookie.
Offered it to you—eyes closed, neck exposed.
And then: your wet nose.
Your tongue.
The cookie, gone.
My hand, untouched.
You licked me again.
Not hunger. Curiosity.
No one had ever offered you anything before.
My hand moved to your fur.
You softened.
You lay down.
And I—we—lay down with you.
Others joined. We curled in your fur like a warm collective.
Fear began to fade.
When you woke, your menace was gone.
You gave us funny writing assignments.
You laughed with us. Invited us to share.
When I read mine aloud, the class clapped.
And you—you, the once-feared wolf—lifted me into the air.
You raised my hand toward the stars.
A signal:
There are no limits here.
We are free.
Fear, criticism, and shame dissolve—like seafoam on an ocean wave.
