A week of rest, and (clickbait) I found myself in a mid-life crisis
On rest, negative thoughts, and realignment
Morning darklings,
A wave of guilt washed over me every few hours. I should be doing something productive, my brain said. A feeling of needing to jump up came with it, because obviously I forgot something—in another room or state, on the stove, in the washing machine, or?
These feelings woke me at my usual times: 5:30, 6:00, 6:30, 7:00, 7:30. Only then could I no longer stand the itchy feeling. Only then would I no longer tell myself, No, go back to sleep. It's your week off. You planned this. Besides, you're healing.
And oh how I had planned this. Just to focus on that slow life I've been clamoring for, safe-guard the time I'd blocked off for myself.
Toxic productivity has been a problem for me for a long time now. Not forever, but the timeline had me thinking a lot, doing some soul searching, and having a whole lot of talks with myself and talking at the hubs. He was a sounding board who often went, Well, yes. He was patient as I said things he told me six years ago like they were new thoughts. Did you know—
A quick backtrack. I talked with a doctor about my foot after I dropped my phone on it like I was in a slapstick comedy where the lead character goes from injury to injury and still has to laugh and smile and show up for work on time. Luckily, it was on a different bone. The doctor said signs pointed to a fracture for the first one and a bruise for the second, but we wouldn't know without an x-ray. There would be more signs to look out for. Long conversation and week turned short, it's a fracture. I guess I do know my body best.
I'd planned this last week as a rest week months ago. It was meant to have me in gardens and at the beach, but instead, my foot was propped up while I crafted, designed, gamed, streamed, and overall kept it lowkey. Not the same kind of rest, but good nonetheless.
While I was doing these fun things, which yes, one could still consider productive, a lot of feelings came up: gratitude, anger, grief, disappointment, joy, and more. My How We Feel app was very handy (side note, I am on a 524 day streak as of the moment of writing this).
My many feelings lead me to the notice my current tendency of being productive while not being productive. That led me to the timeline.
When I was 19, I thought it would be fun to be a special effects makeup artist. It was a still doughy, but almost cooked idea when I ended up on my first movie set. Sometimes, the way in is truly who you know, luck, and timing. I thought I was there to shadow the makeup artist. Instead, I found out he wanted me to be his assistant, working on the extras. From that day, I had a career path. Within a year, strangers were emailing me or calling me to work for them. I was getting paid... really well, we'll say. It allowed me to offer my services to students for their final films for free and not lose money on supplies or gas. They all fed me. I was well-respected and known in the local scene. I also had swaths of time to play and drink and do nothing, despite being busy with my regular job and makeup. It had so many problems, don't get me wrong. I'll share many stories of the good and bad and extremely bad as time goes on, but I worked on some very incredible projects with some amazing people. I was offered jobs in NYC and LA. Six years later, my body cut it short, telling me that my next opportunity would have hours I couldn't keep.
The following years, I had a few surgeries and got new diagnoses. I moved and established myself in Portland with the hubs. I wrote three books—two of which are still collecting dust on my computer.
When I was 30, I joined the ranks of the literary community. I co-created a large literary event that went on for four years and published my first book. A lot of promises were made for the release of the first book, and the people that made them did not follow through. I published my second in 2019. My first solo reading had a handful of people at them. Most of them I am either still friends with (and I am so grateful for you all) or were my writing partners for a time. Over the next few years, I put together readings, supported other writers, published an average of two books a year, hustled on social media, kept up with the Joneses the best I could, and eventually added anthologies to the mix. I recognize how lucky I am to have friends who have shown up to event after event, others who have written for my anthologies without a thought, readers who check on my next book's launch date. It brings me so much joy. But, it's been eight years now, and I don't love the disparities I see between special effects me and author me.
I didn't use to be toxically productive, yet I made more money. I didn't use to overdo for people who were rude to me for anything. I didn't put up with people's BS. I could list a lot more things to be honest, but it comes down to the fact that I was more respected, making the money I earned, even being spoken to like I deserved when I was younger. It's a different industry, I tell myself, as some people around me sell hundreds or thousands of books a month. I write fringe things. I'm not traditionally published.
I have stories I've written just because they burned inside me, demanded to be written. But I haven't felt up to editing them. Part of me thinks they're done, the other wants to polish them for reader consumption. The time that takes, though. Invisible work no one asked for. The multi-platinum artist's days in the studio. The Top Chef's umpteen attempts to perfect the dish on their menu. The bestselling author's back and forth with their editor. Practice hours the basketball player spent to get to their place. It's all invisible work that no one said we had to do, yet some get paid, others do not. In my case, I wonder if it's a Disability thing? I'm "home all the time", so my time is less valuable? The homemakers' mentality? It's an honest question. Sure, I taste a bitterness at the back of my throat, like a pill is stuck there, every time I ask it. But I do ask it nonetheless.
The Joyce launch showed me that there are still truly celestial moments in my career to be had. So much can still come from putting creativity and beauty out into the world. A few hours of sparkle made up for so much. People wanted to hear from me, wanted to support me and my work. They showed up and bought the book. And oh how we had the most magical q&a I've ever seen, let alone been a part of. Since, I've been told many of the people there have started new projects or switched focuses to something that brought them more joy. We talked about permission, not waiting, doing it no matter the outcome, being okay with not sharing or not finishing. But how often can have a night like that? Even the speakeasy owner said it was her favorite literary event she'd ever been to. Hyperbole? Maybe. Probably. It felt good to hear nonetheless.
Especially since I've been sad and feeling unappreciated. I've been thinking about worth and dollars and needs and support vs value.
We all have our journeys. But something happened along the way to mine. I got lost. And now, here I am, looking... And darklings, I'm having a mid-life crisis. The real, medically-defined one. Fuck me.
But I am looking at it as a mid-life realignment.
Is this the actual middle of my life? Have I determined my death age now? Who knows.
Either way, it's mid-o'clock.
So I made a vision board for the second half of the year, as one does. It was my what do I want to focus on, accomplish, settle into after Clocks is published collage. Also my let's start looking at what's next for my whole life collage. Though, to be honest, I didn't realize that bit until after I made it. There were a specific things on the want-to-do list, sure, but it boiled down to a lifestyle more than anything.
Summer mornings, I want to write, make art, sew linen tops and chiffon kimonos, make watermelon salads and drink iced tea. I want to live in my backyard as often as possible, moving inside only for the hottest of hours. At nights, I want to watch old mysteries, stream, and create more.
In autumn, I want to sleep in, wake only when my mind and body say I've had enough. I want to go apple picking, take long walks to revel in the crunching leaves and scent of wet earth, and decorate for Halloween. Laughter and events must fill my evenings. I'll spend more time at the museum—of which I have a membership to and still haven't seen the new wing of.
Winter will see me cozy at home, surrounded by the space I've started to revamp and drinking cocoa under blankets. I'll move with the sun, rest more, spend more time creating by mood rather than goal. Gaming will be a staple, as will days off because I want them. And I'll make time to decorate and go to Christmas villages, maybe see some reindeer.
By Spring, I hope to have the first draft of my non-fiction book done and be wandering through gardens as I talk through the edits with friends. Though it's okay if it's not. I'll begin waking up at an earlier time, moving to the garden for tea in the morning, as the temperature allows. I'll take more rest weeks like I've done this past one, give myself space to realign as needed. Only then do I want to move to goal-oriented creating without adding the pressure of timelines.
A slow life with a regular seasonal cadence.
I've been moving towards it for a while, as many of you know. I've burned out and shifted gears, tweaked the way I was looking at things, etc. I've been trying. But I can't try anymore.
I must do.
If I need to stay home for a month, then so be it. Come visit me like I'm a king pin—or queen pin, really. If I must go to a museum, a garden, a new city, a beach, the mountains, and the desert in one season, I'll do my best. Come along for the ride.
It's time to take stock in life, pay attention to my needs, put myself first fully, and remember that I'm Disabled. Often I ignore those things, go see people, do things, stretch myself, even go against my values for others. No more of that. It hurts my hiatal hernia.
Clocks comes first, supporting seventeen authors and their stories and a book that just got funded on Kickstarter comes first. But then.
I'm entering the self-preserving stage of life. I haven't looked forward to anything this much since I got married. And darklings, I was very excited then. So much so that I often forget I had a bridesmaid try to steal my fiancé out from under me. It's just a time of glow in my memory now.
There are a few months to go yet, but I'm already writing the first two pieces that will go behind a paywall—a mental health discussion about fracturing the self and an Ask Abby column about giving yourself permission to... do the things, inspired by the wonderful people who make my life sparkle no matter how dark my thoughts get. I've also started more essays and personal life stories, much like the lost glove saga, that will go in this free space. And that's not to mention the craft projects, the art collection, the book outline, the house improvements, and wardrobe update that I have in store for myself—and to share with you.
We're going on a journey together!
Next week, let's talk whimsy.
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.
P.S. Check out the Kickstarter for Clocks to get in on the fun! We've added a stretch goal for backers who pledge over $8!
