Ann Bradford

Tell the negative committee that meets inside your head to sit down and shut up.



I had a dream.

I dreamed that I didn’t have to be the starving writer. That I could have that well (enough) paid day-job, and write in the evenings. That I could work full-time and still be as dedicated – whether to writing this blog or writing my stories – as I was before the 8-hour-plus grind.

I’m sure you all will be shocked to hear that little dream crashed and burned within a week of starting my job. I came home exhausted, my neck muscles in a wreck, my poor eyes screaming their pleas to STAY AWAY from any screen for at least two hours, my fingers frozen. (The black circles and red-veined, bulging eyes  are apparently the ‘new look’ for working masses everywhere.) And then a week passed, and out of sheer shame and self-hatred, I stayed away from this blog.

Every day that passed made it harder to step back in, because what was worse than not having a ready blog-post to put up? Being stale. My brain felt boring. Even my dreams were littered with excel spreadsheets and number grids. I kid you not: two nights ago, I couldn’t sleep because I had an Excel nightmare, in which I was hiding and unhiding columns, desperately trying to find the one titled “sleep”. I know. Embarrassing. My creativity, which for the past six months has drifted between a happy waterfall to a placid pond, was going through a serious drought. In other words, my creativity was Arizona. It was the Grand Canyon. No, it was the Sahara.

And then I watched this amazing video, sent to me by someone who has been the pinnacle of support for me in my writing journey so far:  Continue reading


Remember what I said about writing microfiction? Well, this is an example of exactly that. It may not look like much now, and maybe it isn’t, but it gave birth to a plethora of other stories, some that I haven’t even finished yet.


To be born again, first you have to…Anna and I chased butterflies through the field, laughing with our heads thrown back, hair spindling gold as it chased behind us. We clapped the air victoriously over our butterfly until snap we held the wings and the body was in the needles and Anna laughed and I held the still-glowing innocence of wings in my palms, curtain of hair blocking a single golden tear and I whispered to be born again, first you have to… 

I lay draped over a familiarly rotten couch under the creaking fan, smoke spiraling from gnarly fingers as I vainly try to blow circles into the wretched air. A hand roughly traces my calves and he towers over me, broken lips curling over the smoking paper as I slither my tongue around his pulse point and he sucks in poison one too many, one too many and in a convulsing heap he falls over me and I cradle his hair, eyes milked and staring at whirling blades above, and my tongue scrapes over his ear, to be born again, first you have to… 

I ran through the concrete, industrialized field of my present, crazed with my head thrown back, hair spindling smoke behind me as I chased the last precipice of my dreams. The stair spiraled up, up, up because maybe the closer my lote-tree, the better my chances, and she whispered in my ear, golden wings in her palms, that maybe to be born again, first you have to
I jump.