I Read That I Should Post a Bio as an Emerging Writer on Medium

So I’m going to go ahead and write one.

Misty was born when I was about ten years old. Moon isn’t her maiden name; that came much later. I was playing in my room, imagining that I would one day write a riveting publication called Virginia Underground, and I would write as Misty.

I have kept a journal on and off since I was seven years old, but Misty wasn’t behind the writing when I was so young. She emerged, full of strength and conviction, when I was about sixteen — when I became very involved in the church, started dating the Cowboy, and pushed Snake away because he wasn’t a Christian.

Misty had a lot of time back then. She would spend her mornings on the school bus, the year after M moved away, doing her first Bible study of the day. The in-depth one.

Misty liked school, too. But when the Cowboy left, Misty retreated deep within me, taking her vibrancy with her; and the hollow person that was left pushed everyone away.

Her voice grew dark, her writings reflective and sad. She wrote to the Cowboy every night for several months and kept the last bouquet of white roses he had given her until there was nothing left of them but brown paper.

In desperation one night, she tried to burn the thick stack of letters, but they wouldn’t light; it was too damp in my basement room in December. She cut them up, all of them, into tiny little pieces and then stuffed them in the vase with the dead roses.

Misty started to creep out again about a year later. She sat in the foyer of Coldwater Community Church and looked up, out the glass windows at the front and into the parking lot. That red truck was never coming back, she suddenly realized with startling clarity. It was time to move on.

Misty came back out slowly, a little bit at a time. She didn’t have a warm reception by a lot of the people she had once thought of as friends, but there were still a few. W. The Roman…

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