Billie Bird Productions
This is a catharsis of what was, what could be, and what wasn't.
Where the written word belittles modern logic, pulls your imagination for what living is your biggest pretend, and welcomes you home.
Welcome to the written word playground.
Dear Reader,It’s getting late, and I’ve had this document open for days. Well, it’s been many weeks, actually. Vulnerability comes with the night. I’ve struggled with the pronoun of “I,” simply because, who am I to call myself a ‘writer,’ aside of a person who closets themselves in comparison and ideas? A language often I can’t communicate more than once, and I lose it. Ownership tied to a standard has never sat quite right with me, yet I’ve had a voice lately nudging my back to voice myself as if I’m voicing the words ‘I love you’ to another for the first time. I battle with talking of myself in first person.I’ve never been correct at an opening, a middle, or a close to a story, a concept, message, or a paragraph. I’m sure I’m doing it now, everywhere and nowhere all at once. I’m betting there’s the proper way they still give you a grade for; yet I think we make up for it, being alive, in stages of an opening, a middle, and a close for what is living. What if by making our lives art is by not learning from the lessons?The shy young girl in the passenger side of her father’s car, waiting for him to return but leaving her with a notebook and a pencil, telling her to use that bright imagination. Instructing her to conduct a story with no justifications, freely open to wander. With ages come years; with sword in hand and pen in pocket come high water of trial and tribulations.I never claimed to share with the world my outlook nor how it should be seen or felt. I’ve never claimed inspiration on myself. I’ve never encouraged or discouraged any act or idea from another person. Instead, I untie my own chapbook from how I’ve made sense of the chapters of my days of navigation and all of the characters that make their mark in it. I suppose that is what I’m doing now.Here I am, at an age of the in between of a restless young heart, to also charred campfire wood to which all stories have been told and the audience has left. Maybe age isn’t a number of years we live, but by the handfuls of lives we feel that we’ve been given. I’m opening this world I’ve had for such a long time in a new way, and I feel like I haven’t quite found the words to say it yet.These are the raw pages of the black spot who can’t seem to say the words “I.” This is me who wants to protect how we portray the world and those who witness us with the creativity of the written word. This is me who wants to write for you when you’re at a loss for words. This is me who wants to help you craft those words with those who you value most. This is the vulnerability I couldn’t ever find the words to say.My name is Billie, and this is Billie Bird Productions.B
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