Morning darklings,
and I were talking about our creative phases the other day. For years, I have been writing. It’s the closest thing I’d call an era in my life. From 2018—2023, I wrote, I published, I rinsed, I repeated. Sure, I had moments when I needed to take a break. But the very second I came back, I’d go full throttle again.If I hadn’t mentioned it, no one would have known I took a sabbatical. My publishing schedule didn’t hiccup, despite my exhaustion. The only time there was a somewhat lengthy break is when I was suffocating in compound grief. Even then, I came out the other side with two collections of essays about the Littles and the first Janes novel.
Is it any surprise that I have stuttered, that I’ve switched from one story to the next, stalled out, burned out, found new loves, gotten distracted by shinies?
Psychology says no. Psychology says that this was inevitable, and if only I’d done the math problem of when my train would collide, I’d have known. But I was too busy engrossed in things to do the word problem. What am I—in college?
So here I am, crashed into the train that was oncoming for years. I’ve fallen in love with this project and that. I’ve finished one story then another. I’ve started novel one, only to move on to novel two, only to find out it’s probably actually a novella.
I was judging myself hard. If listening to my psychologist’s advice, if asking what I would say to a friend, I’d tell them it’s great they are testing new things, that they’re giving their brain a break.
Congrats on following your bliss. Sucks that your ADHD is insane right now, but good for you in not letting it get you stuck.
High-five for showing up, even if it’s for a different project today than yesterday.
But it’s me. And I require perfection.
But I don’t. I really, really don’t.
In fact, that’s an insane thing to think.
So when Valerie and I chatted about goals and careers and where we are, we came up with a lot of different ideas. We’ve been doing cozy goals, for instance. (I can’t wait to share more on that soon.) But still, my goals change week to week.
When the word playing came to mind, it was like someone released the pressure gauge building in my chest. I know I play with style and art and the Smalls, but with my everything?
I went on a walk after we talked, allowing myself to mull that over.
Later that evening, I chatted with the hubs. I bounced thoughts and ideas off of him.
It all came back to playing.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to come up with the right way to say things. “I’m just trying something new, going back to something old, not giving fucks, making no art, making art like nothing I’ve done before. I’m trying to appreciate this, enjoy it. So yeah, not treat it like work. I can’t work anyhow, you know?” I say to my husband who filled out my Disability forms for me. “Maybe I’m not in a production phase or a publication stage. Or season. Or era. Or whatever. I’m just playing.”
Saying the word aloud felt good in my mouth, like rolling a candy around to coat my tongue, brush the flavor against the insides of my cheeks. I’m just playing.
Sure, I’m writing on a thing and have some short stories I’m working on. But nothing has a set publication date like I usually have. If I stayed on my usual schedule, you’d have something in the fall. You will not. If I stayed on my usual schedule, you’d have something in the spring. You will have the anthology I’m editing, that I have short stories in. But you will not have a novel or collection of stories filled with my words from my brain exclusively. I have the words to fill the pages, but they don’t make sense together or aren’t ready or I don’t love them yet.
So right now, I’m doing different things. I’m playing with surrealism. I’m thinking of putting together my own anthology. I’m considering what pen name my next big work will be published under. I’m imagining what those courses will look like if I put them together, as I’m not sure I have that in me now (if anyone wants to do this for me, though… I’m not opposed to a chat). I’m thinking more collaboratively. I’m clearer.
I know I’ll finish the next miniature book and write more in Janes, but not this year, probably not next year either. Beyond just enjoying the different types of fiction and non-fiction I’m writing, I’ve got things to figure out—including where to live next yet because my apartment is located in a toxic place and I need find a better way to type for my fingers and I need to come up with more income to sustain my creativity without taking too much from me.
I hope you’ll stick around, even as I don’t publish my usual work for a while, because I’ll still be here, talking about life, creativity, disability, writing, the seasons, and what play means as one figures out how to be everything all at once.
What season are you in?
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.
Love it!