a letter to those who have loved me.

we are built by many things {a letter to the ghosts of love}

Dear love, It can be said that we are built by many things. Biology and lineage. Grit and moonlight and ocean stone. By fire and water and air. By the lessons of the grandmothers and the pounding of blood through veins and the very first break. The way it felt when you learned the truth of boundary and by the day you stood there and knew nothing could every be the same.   Yes – it can be said that we are built by many, many things. But all of these things are really, at the core, one thing. Love. Love with …

uncommon-sense_-the-too-much-girl-jeanette-leblanc-#peacelovefree

Uncommon Sense || You are not too much.

“Life is complicated. I am tired of hiding.” “Why are you hiding?” “Because I’m ‘too much’ girl” “Oh. I know that story. All too well.” “I just had a long distance lover dump me because I’m too much. And it hurts. Fuck it. No more.” +++++ Listen to me. Right now. You are right. Fuck it. No more. Never again. You are not too much. You have never been too much. You will never be too much. The very idea is preposterous. Because you were born to be you. All of you. Not a tiny acceptable sliver. Not a watered …

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Millions of worlds of words (a writer’s thank you letter)

‘You’ve got millions of worlds of words inside you’ she said. ‘But what am I to do if I can’t ever get them out?’ It’s true. I am haunted by that question. The words live in me always. Tumble all over each other inside and out. There are voice memos from freeway epiphanies. Hundreds and hundreds of unfinished word documents in all stages – from one-line fragments to pages and pages of almost-but-not quite-finished prose and poetry. Almost unintelligible scrawls in long ignored journals. Words I have to examine closely to even remember if they are mine. Are any of …

fever-what-a-lovely-way-to-burn-jeanette-leblanc

Fever {what a lovely way to burn}

 It was one night. Late. Alone in the center of tangled white sheets. Lost in the throes of fever and cough. Of chills and heat and sweat. Of the way the room grew distant and sounds became liquid and I floated in the middle of all that was and had been. And that night, in that space, I typed these words and then left consciousness behind and forgot they were here. Tonight, I found them again. And I got lost in the fever dream of memory and make believe and reality. And lost also in the wonder of what lives …

get the hell out of your own way and write || jeanette leblanc || peacelovefree

get the hell out of your own way {and write}

The muse has got an edge tonight. She doesn’t have a lot of extra time and she’s not in the mood for the usual bullshit. You feel her come in on a breath through the open window and settle deep in this space. Like she owns it. It’s strange how she can be inside and outside and all around. All at once. A shiver rises from the base of spine until skin tingles. Everywhere. You know what this means. It is time. No matter you are tired. No matter today and this week and this month have worn you down. …

10 things you should know if you intend to love a poet

10 things you should know {if you intend to love a poet}

We will always have a mistress. Poetry is our religion and the muse is our deity. She owns us.  We will submit ourselves to her; beg for her to appear, turn ourselves inside out and go down on our knees to please her. At some point, you will come second to our burning need to create. You will be jealous of the muse. But if we do not appease her the fire will consume us, and you, in the process. She is crucial to our survival. Let us please her. Poetry is not always literal. Do not assume our poetry …

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A night for remembering || the pathway home

{we live our lives in real time.  an unceasing go-go-go and give-give-give.  it can get messy, and tangled and so easy to forget ourselves in the midst of it all.  but sometimes, right when it is needed the most,  there will come a night when the universe gifts us with the path back home} Tonight is a night for a hard pour of whiskey in a mason jar. It’s the way the ice cracks and the heart says ‘ Oh yes, I know exactly how that feels’. It’s for sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor and cupping both hands around your glass …

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10 quotes for writers and lovers and speakers of truth

Those who know me well (or even a little) know that words are my drug of choice. They are the rush and the heat and the grief and the sex and the connection and the disassociation and the mother and the wolf and the deepest and truest heart of me. It is in the words that I find meaning and give meaning. It is inside the words that I birth myself. Inside of the lines I untangle the ways to define and name and understand. They are my way in and my way out. They are both the map and …

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stay awake with me {the story of a broken heart & the open road}

{some stories write themselves. in a rush, fingers and thoughts and words tumbling over one another almost faster than you can capture. some stories are stubborn, held tight, refusing to come to light no matter how hard you push. still others come easy, like water flows, but only if you respect their timeline, and allow them to be born on their own terms.  this is one of those stories. of a weekend lived over a year ago. a weekend that saved me} Enough. No more. Get in the car. Now. Go. Your boundaries have been violated. Your trust shaken. It is …

15 things to do on your 39th birthday - by Jeanette LeBlanc

15 things do when you wake up on your 39th birthday.

{Time now, it flies by. The days and months and years blend into one another. The words seem to take a backseat more than they should. This post was written on October 8th – my 39th birthday. It was a response to my post from last year, when the morning of my birthday found me desolate and heartbroken and questioning everything. As time rushes by and the days blur to months blur to another year past – I found myself wondering at all that can happen in the span of a year. And instead of waking up sad, I was merely …