Unarmed and Dangerous

Watch out, 2026!

2025 in review. Yup, that’s the clutter in our brains and bodies from the old year!

This year, I want to become known.

To myself, to my family, friends, clients, listeners, and readers, which may seem obvious coming from a person who’s been writing a memoir, poems, a blog, as well as songs for a long time. But as much attention as I’ve been giving my inner voice and sharing much of it on the page or stage, there’s a background whisper I unsuccessfully attempt to ignore:

You’re not worth knowing. In fact, you’re dangerous. All the personal work you’ve been up to is causing destruction and distress, so keep your little ideas and revelations to yourself. The people closest to you aren’t really interested anyway. They liked you better when you were tamer.

It’s a familiar voice that I’ve become much closer acquainted with after attending the Gateless Writing Teacher Training at the end of 2024 in Joshua Tree. After almost a full week writing several times a day and bathing naked in both the backyard pool of our host’s home in the desert and the brilliant pieces rattled out in short sessions from twelve glorious women authors and artists, the universality of the critical voice inside all of us became clear. Clear and bright as the stars draped over the warm sand and succulents each night we studied the workings of this virulent internal and external force that accompanies and accosts any creative endeavor.

Each morning and evening, we’d begin with a brief meditation, then take off like sprinters from the blocks, typing furiously for twenty minutes using a prompt’s cue. Each writer shared their piece, and around the circle, we identified shining examples of craft and style. The variety, depth, humor, vulnerability, and sheer power of each share terrified and inspired me.

What astounded me more were the backstories from these incredibly talented and accomplished women learned during conversations over meals, on desert hikes, or during hot tub soaks.

Every one of them experienced the same critical interior voice that shared a common theme of “not good enough,” and “who do you think you are?” regardless of demonstrable success of past published books.

In the training, Gateless Writing founder, Suzanne Kingsley asserts that those voices act as “guards at the door” which indicate particularly rich material hidden behind them. Our job as creators is to courageously look inside those rooms regardless of threats from the sentries– you’ll fail and make a fool of yourself.

Those threats are the ones that keep us from getting to the good shit.

When the whispers start to dictate what and how we write, we stick to the safe stuff. We shy away from something that might anger, sadden, or surprise people we know and love. This keeps us skimming the surface. But why are we writing in the first place– for the same reason we read?

“We read to know we’re not alone,” C.S. Lewis wrote, freezing me in my tracks. It explained something I’d felt so deeply, but was never able to articulate. Books have been surrogate mothers, friends, teachers, even lovers my whole life. When I started playing my original music in public, I discovered that people felt the same resonance with my songs. After coffee shop shows and farmer’s market performances, they came up and shared how they felt understood in a way they’d never been before. What a reciprocal gift.

Last year, in the midst of what I hope will go down as the most intensely challenging year ever for my little family, I was miraculously able (with the help of community angels) to keep writing, singing, and even performing. Against all odds, my songwriting partner in crime and I launched our podcast and program for women songwriters, Supernova Support. I managed to finish a complete manuscript draft of my memoir, published a poetry eChapbook, and wrote a healthy batch of high-quality songs which were featured on our podcast. I did it all using the same kind of energy a shipwrecked swimmer uses to keep their head above water.

In 2026, I intend to continue those activities with a different energetic vibe– less like a streaker and more like a nudist colony resident. Instead of sharing occasional pieces on Substack and rare social media posts as if I’m hoping no one will notice my bare ass reflecting moonlight as I run down the street, I’ll sit my sweaty butt down at the breakfast table and converse over tea without burning my bosom on the hot mug.

This may repel some, but will certainly amuse, attract, and dare I say, inspire others. Either way, I’m going to unbuckle my holster and walk through 2026 completely unarmed, daring to show my actual self to those around me. I stand to retain and gain true friends, while confounding those who were never a part of this alternative lifestyle anyway; the ones who stared with binoculars from the bushes out of curiosity. I want to get to the good shit.

No matter what the internal critic whispers, the truth is, I’m only dangerous to those who don’t want to know themselves or anyone else. I don’t fault them for it, those guards at the door are pretty intimidating with their AK’s. But I’m going in.

See you there!

Enjoy 16 pocket-sized poems bringing small but certain happiness based on merchandise from a middle-aged shopgirl’s year working at the Luminarium gift shop. “A Luminous Year,” by Karen Joy Brown.