Comedy isn’t just my coping mechanism, it’s my coping companion. I knew — without really knowing — that laughter was the medicine to my melancholy from the first moment I heard a joke after crying about a disappointment… probably not getting a damn Barbie doll. My spoiled ass. Those joints were my first “actors,” though.
Laughter hugged me tightly, squeezing away any leftover demons from the pangs of sadness, anger, shame, and whatever other less-than-savory fee-fees. Crying isn’t so emotionally wrought if the tears come after a belly-aching laugh. I flung myself onto the onslaught of my creations: jokes, stories, poems… all coming from this Ikea warehouse I call an imagination.
WingChick is one such story. Like many (ANY) writer, I crafted my characters from my own experiences, my own friends, my own heartbreaks. I took that heartbreak and formed my own sense of therapy. For months, I worked and worked at it. Then I shared it with the world via a campaign. And that’s when shit got really real. Since WingChick is so close to me… since it IS me, I went through — and am going through — every single emotional ringer: fear, anxiety, worry, self-loathing, self-criticism, self-doubt, hope, joy, a dash of more self-doubt, rinse, repeat.
But, because I can’t NOT create and I create BECAUSE I want people to see it, I flung it out there. My fling of faith. I’ve already done a leap of faith. WingChick is my fling of faith.