odds + ends: holiday weekend edition

I had something else entirely written about the five day weekend I’m starting today, but my partner showed up as I was leaving work yesterday, and whisked me away to the North Shore.

The days are passing fast, and while I loathe the refrain of “I’m so busy,” it comes to mind frequently. We’re in single digits for weekends left in Minnesota (including this one). Three before traveling, then one before we leave with a trailer. Alongside all the work of moving (packing, sorting, donating, selling, measuring, etc.), I have an almost anxious desire to soak up as much of Minnesota as I can. I love my home. I love being from here, and as excited as I am to be leaving (for a while), I sometimes can’t believe I actually will.

We’ll be north today. Being here, in places that have grown sacred to me, I feel sensitive and humble. All this beauty, all this history, all these places my own ghosts haunt. There’s so much more to say, but I’m not saturated to find the words. Already I’ve yelled for Chris to stop the car so I can walk the fields of lupine.

I’m finishing researching our upcoming trip. I’ll forever love my Lonely Planet guides, but I’m scouring travel blogs for the spots the guidebook missed (or, on the flip side, the guidebook hotspots that should be avoided). I love reading travelogues, but dislike prescriptive advice. Hand-Luggage Only is my go-to for quick lists + recs, followed up by A Lady in London for, as the name suggests, all things London. For food, I’m hounding friends to give up their favorite joints, and checking out everything French Foodie in Dublin + Canal Cook recommends. I’m whittling my list of literary haunts, because if it were up to me only, we’d spent all fifteen days chasing literature’s ghost. I’m not researching New York with the same fervor, as that leg of the journey will be a different beast. We’re visiting friends, and soon we’ll be on the right coast to visit more often.

Chris laughs at me when I explain to him that I want our trip to feel like the freedom to play. Turn down that street, take a rest in that cafe, visit this bar or church or open gate. He knows how much I crave a plan, and how badly I manage change. Maybe a better way to say it is: I want to know everything while maintaining the freedom to do anything.

I’m slogging through Star of the Sea, which started promising, but is dragging on, while craving the slimness of short stories. Elsewhere, I’m reading career advice to alleviate the fears of leaving my first job, catching up on the newsletters I subscribe to (then fall behind on), and building an at-home yoga practice (because that studio life is expensive). An essay of mine was published to the Invisible Illness site, and I’m starting to feel the stirring of fresh creative life after finishing my novel. I’m scribbling down fragments of sentences and stories, hoping they’ll become something.

Finally, because it’s Independence Day, let’s take a moment to feel patriotic. Last Saturday, demonstrators gathered in 700 different places to protest inhumane immigration practices. Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s workout is intense (because fighting fascism takes work, y’all). Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is the face of hope this week, and midterms are coming soon.

how to have the best summer

“I suspect that the way I feel now, at summer’s end, is about how I’ll feel at the end of my life, assuming I have time and mind enough to reflect: bewildered by how unexpectedly everything turned out, regretful about all the things I didn’t get around to, clutching the handful of friends and funny stories I’ve amassed, and wondering where it all went. And I’ll probably still be evading the same truth I’m evading now: that the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was pretty much the one I chose. And my dissatisfactions with it are really with my own character, with my hesitation and timidity.”Tim Kreider, The Summer that Never Was

Last summer was one of those golden summers that nobody ever actually has. Without contest, it was the best and the fullest of my adult life. (I’d say of my whole life, but there was a summer, when me, my mom, and my brother spent seven weeks lakeside, and the sun turned me blonde).

When I was fifteen, I was on the phone with a friend the week before Labor Day. Already, the days were shortening, and the dew forming on the grass made my feet cold. I sat on the steps of my deck, as far as our cordless phone’s signal could reach, and we talked about how summer never is what it’s supposed to be. Nine months later, when school let out and summer started again, this same friend made a list of all the things we were going to do that summer. I can still see the list, but I don’t think we ever crossed a item off it.

By some karmic jackpot, my summer last year was that summer I always hoped I’d have at least once. Each day came to me like magic. I went to baseball games on weekday afternoons. I spent blissed out weeks on a porch, watching the sun set over the rooftops, too hot to do anything but listen to The Weeknd and drink wine. One Saturday, I woke up so early that I met the woman I was living with coming home from her night shift. She had a drink, I had coffee. That day, I drove south, and we saw the sun split itself into a thousand beans as it passed the horizon line, and then that night, I stayed out until two, and ran home in the rain.

I stayed out past midnight again, and again, and again. I walked home under the stars after spending hours with people I’d just met. I spent so much time getting to know strangers, because I was losing friends that mattered to me, and I didn’t know how to recover the pieces. Deep into July, I laid under the sun, and listened to elementary schoolmates, now grown, play basketball. I was shattered, in that warm grass, to think about how often all my friends have been new friends, and how very, very rarely they’ve become old ones.

I turned twenty-five, and spent the night before my birthday, a Saturday night, alone in an apartment cluttered with moving boxes, feeling too young to be this lonely and too old to care about the next day. I lost twenty pounds from stress. I walked hand in hand along the shore of Lake Superior, and remembered that our constants can take many forms.

After two strong margaritas, I watched Fourth of July fireworks set off over a baseball diamond. Their exploding light against the navy sky was so violent and beautiful that I cried. Again, and again, and again, I lifted out of body, and wondered what it was I did to get to access so much joy. I went to Italy. Swam in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Cried in the Basilica of Santa Maria. Threw a coin into the Trevi fountain, because the first time I did it, my wish came true. When I got home, I slept for three hours, and woke up and went to a nightclub. Last summer, I fell in love.

This summer will be, for every reason there is, different from last. I’m fighting my natural tendency to believe that different will mean worse. Last summer was bottled lightning. It was wild in its intensity, and shocking how much life I experienced during that short season. It was wild in the way it all surprised me.

For important reasons, this summer is calculated. I’ve done something I’ve rarely done as an adult, and made a list of all the things I want to do. I’m plotting out weeks (and more importantly, weekends) to maximize time. I’m building calendars based on priorities. Sometimes, this is what you have to do. Time is sometimes an ocean and sometimes a math equation. Yesterday, my boyfriend said to “we won’t be in town for a single Thursday Saint’s home game.” No dollar beer night this summer.

I think about how yoga teaches us to find space within our bodies. This summer feels a little bit like that, learning how to find space, to be at peace, to do all it is we want — and need — to do.

I supposed this is all my way of saying: here’s to a new season. One of the hardest thing I’ve had to confront is how I assume scarcity in the face of abundance. Last summer, we never ran out of time, out of sun, out of day, out of wonder. This summer won’t be like that. Already, the days feel finite. But why does that have to make them any less precious?

everything you’ve been feeling? yeah, that’s depression

Late last week, after an episode of television left me unreasonably shattered, I remembered: This is what depression feels like. (How did I forget?)

I’ve experienced three major depressive episodes in my life. Darknesses so unnavigable I thought I’d never be a whole person again. But depression doesn’t usually come for me like this. It’s more likely to come in mild, stubborn waves. Instead of night that won’t end, it’s like clouds that refuse to part.

When I’m back under the clouds, I can’t understand how I ever forget that this is what depression feels like, but I always do. Maybe it’s a stubborn leftover from childhood, that hope that, once they come, sunny days will never leave.

But as steady as the sun comes, so do the clouds, and all my hallmarks signs of depression are back — and have been for several weeks. Brain fog, poor concentration, fast tears, a blue undertone, worries that seem unsolvable, a general sense that it’s all too much to bear.

It’s taken me three days to write these measly 800 or so words, because my brain feels both empty and waterlogged. This too reminds me I’m depressed. Accessinglanguageis usually themostnaturalthingI do. Maybe that’s why depression (even more so than anxiety) feels frightening — it cuts me off from the very act that heals me.

I like growing up, though, because I’m getting better at my life. Right now, I’m getting better at accepting that I can’t “fix” my way out of depression. Exercise or yoga or meditation or reading a good book — all these things help soothe me, but they’re not “cures” for depression, despite what the internet tells you. All I can do when I’m here is hang on. To myself and to the resources I have, and I wait for the days to get better. (And they always, always have).

This is a mild and functional depression, and some days are easier than others. Some days are even easy. Tuesday was an easy day — cheerful, productive, bright. I fell asleep at ease. Wednesday was not, though. My brain was a wide blank desert, and every time I tried to dial in to my work, my blankness intimidated me and left me in tears. I wanted to crawl back to bed, and hide from the light.

I’ve been on hiatus from my blog, because work and life crowded out the time I usually set aside to write, and I didn’t do a good job of creating time elsewhere. I once listened to an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert where she said that when she wakes up in a bad mood, she asks herself: “Who are you going to blame your life no today? I was quiet here for several months last year, and returned in the fall to kickstart my creativity and retrain my writing muscle. Another month and a half of radio silence is good proof that I derail my own goals better than anyone else can.

Although, I hate the language of goals. Especially when I’m in my depression, I’m reminded that our resources are limited, and sometimes, you just can’t do everything you want to. Self discipline and commitment and “crushing it” all have their place in forward motion, but “no excuses” and “hustle harder” is just so antithetical how life actually rolls. I want to finish a draft of my novel by April 30. I told myself I’d write six days a week to do that. Last week, I opened my notes every day, and didn’t write a single word.

All that being said, I want to get back into a regular habit of writing here once a week. I like the space it gives me to think, and I like the small platform it gives me to connect with the people who share in my struggles and triumphs and questions and curiosities. That, more than anything else, heals me.

Reading Lately: The Woman in Cabin 10 + What Alice Forgot. After eschewing the novel in favor of essays for a year or so, I’m back to my roots. These last two novels I read are both highly marketed, highly marketable “commercial novels,” and while I dislike the snobbery of “literary fiction,” I see the difference when I read novels like these. These two novels are page turners/page burners. I’m not keeping either now that I’ve finished (I keep only books I really love and plan to return to), but losing myself in their stories reminded me of why I love books.

Watching Lately: Big Little Lies + Criminal Minds. I’ve been rewatching Big Little Lies (but only while I workout, because #motivation), and this show is so nuanced and complex. My boyfriend and I are also deep into Criminal Minds. We play this fun game during the credits where I shout out all the mug shots I recognize, and he buries his head underneath the couch cushions. (I didn’t say who it was fun for…). As much as I joke about loving creepy crime stuff, there’s something particularly fascinating about the gender dynamics at play in the true crime world. Women know — and we have this knowledge reinforced daily — that we are vulnerable to crime in ways that men are not. Our bodies and our lives only remain our own insofar as we are aware of how quickly they can be taken from us. Again, with the jokes, but I think women feel a little bit better when we know all the different ways we could be killed.

Working on Lately: Being kinder to myself. I’m not talking self-care or “treat yo self,” but rather about the way I talk to myself. I shared on Instagram this week the negative comments I made to myself about my appearance. I try to approach the world with grace and care, but when I think about how I approach myself, it’s all sharp edges and hard lines. Of course you’re lazy. Of course you’re not pretty enough. Of course you don’t deserve that. It’s exhausting to live under such a barrage, and yet I choose to do it to myself! Why? I’m the one that gets to decide how I treat myself. Why do I choose to be so mean?

thoughts on abundance versus reduction and what we create space for

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about reduction over the last few months. Reducing my spending, reducing my possessions, reducing my stress, reducing my clutter, (I want to say reducing my waistline too, but I’m working on self-compassion over here). The cleanness of January–new year, fewer plans, clear, winter light–makes me want to cut down, cut back.

On Monday, I lay awake in bed thinking about writing. I’m reading Karl Ove Knausgaard, and thus far, he hasn’t written much about his writing, but the act of writing is a constant specter in the books. The joy of language (“These two places alone, which I could not believe I had written…are two of the best moments in my life. By which I mean by whole life.”), the industry of publishing, the slog of working on it, the anxiety of not writing at all.

I’ve written very little this past year. I did publish short story in a small journal in June (cue the trumpets!), and have written reflectively both in my journal and in this space, but as far as creating, pulling new stories out of the nascent fog, shaping those narratives into something readable, something publishable–I’ve only “done” three longhand pages of that kind of writing in the past seven months. Despite having written so little, I still feel writing on me the way I always have. I still shutter beautiful moments, listen for cadence as people speak, note the phrases strangers use as they cross me on the sidewalk. On Monday, I thought about how hard it is to create something new (even if it’s just for yourself), and then I remembered that I’ve done this again and again and again. Creating is hard, but it’s also as natural as breathing.

What will occupy the space I’m creating with all my reducing?

I wrote about this feeling last week: That I want 2018 to be an abundant year. It strikes me, lover of words that I am, that the two words that have been rising to the surface now are at odds with one another. Abundance and reduction.

But then I think about the two areas of my life where excesses can be most visible: my spending habits and my book collection. I’ve been diligent these past weeks at tracking my spending, and weighing my purchases, and while I’ve said no to what I haven’t needed, I’ve genuinely enjoyed spending each dollar I’ve spent this month. A Saturday night with friends, a haul of fresh, adventurous foods we turned into meals on a long, snowy weekend, sipping the “world’s best chai latte” in a warm parlor on a cold, cold night. Cutting back to make room for more.

Same goes with my book collection. Reading My Struggle, which is so compelling and wise and asks questions of me that I haven’t know to ask, has me thinking, yet again, about which books I keep and which I pass along. I have a tremendous amount of books, many of which I haven’t read yet, and while you wouldn’t guess it looking at my four full bookcases, I edit my collection frequently. I won’t keep a book unless I loved it, or unless it taught me something. The six volumes of My Struggle are the kind of books I will gladly haul with me from apartment to apartment, and from city to city. Books with this much life make me want to cut back on the volumes where the magic has dulled.

As is so often the case in my life (in all our lives?), I feel like I’m holding disparate things in one hand, and wondering what will be done with them. I want to write, but I don’t trust my words yet, or my ability to work with them. I want to foster abundance in my life, but right now, I’m taken with reduction. What is going to fill up all this space I’m creating?

I’m considering dedicating a month to a daily habit to try to create some forward motion for myself. Journaling, maybe, or mediating. I’m always interested in what happens when we commit ourselves to one thing. How can that one thing crack open the ten thousand?

I have all this joy right now, but also all this anticipation. The new year is arbitrary, I know, but the hope I have for it isn’t.

thoughts on self-care

“A world in which self-care has to be such a trendy topic is a world that is sick. Self-care should not be something we resort to because we are so absolutely exhausted that we need some reprieve from our own relentless internal pressure. True self-care is not salt baths and chocolate cake, it is making the choice to build a life you don’t need to regularly escape from.” – Brianna Wiest

I spent Friday night alone to rest. It was a busy week, and I had a bad cold for all of it. I really, really need rest, but in order to do so, I had to cancel on a holiday party I was invited to (which I really, really didn’t want to do).

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of “self-care,” because I think that being kind to yourself is one of the most fundamental things we all (but in particular, we women) need to learn how to do, but also I think that lots of selfishness, consumerism and blatant bad decisions get excused by calling it “self-care.”

Last spring, when I was the most strung out and burnt out by the life I was living, I wrote about self-care. I re-read that short essay now, and I cringe a little bit, but I also feel a kind of sad-happiness for that girl. On the one hand, my attempts at self-care seem flimsy in comparison to circumstances I was trying to care my way out of, but on the other hand? That girl was learning so much. I was learning so much.

One of the primary things I was learning was that even though life is so damn hard it turns our bones brittle and our skin rough, each waking minute doesn’t have to be a battle.

I was thinking about “self-care” last night when I was home sick, because I found myself practicing some of the form of self-care I used to rely on. I used to put so much stock into baking a batch of cookies or reading a book to make me feel better. I remember pleading with myself just to get to the end of the day or end of the week so I could zone out in front of the television, or lose myself in a book, or in the mindless of baking. These habits alone, though, rarely brought me what I needed, because – and this is what I know now – self-care isn’t giving yourself permission to escape when you find yourself breaking. Self-care is working hard to live a life that doesn’t break you.

I said this last week too: Life is hard. We’re approaching the one-year anniversary of my grandfather’s death, and its bringing new waves of grief. I’m getting my financial house in order, but I’m not there yet, and my chest sometimes gets tight with money-worry. My network of friendship has splintered, and even though I maintain some dear, old friends and have met some new, wonderful people, my circle of relationships are, on the whole, smaller and less intimate than ever. I feel lonely sometimes. I read the news, and then, like every woman I know, I have to grapple again with the ways I’ve experienced harassment and assault and violence and degradation. Life is still as hard as it ever was, but I now have a life that can handle it all better.

I spent spring 2017 learning how to gather up strength inside myself, and then I spent summer 2017 living a life I no longer needed escape from. This was – and is still – the kind of self-care I’m trying to practice. Cultivating a life from which I don’t need to escape.

Last winter, I begged with the universe “why can’t it just be easier?” My life is easier now. It just is. I got to bake last night, not because I needed something to make me feel better equipped to face my life, but because I wanted to. Because it was fascinated to see how butter and sugar caramelized and then crystallized into these delicate, lacy cookies.

I said the same thing last week, but god, it feels good to not have to escape anymore.

snapshots of a happy summer + why i’ve been quiet

B904A75D-AC3F-4C9B-BC47-20666307524D

I’ve left this space deliberately blank for several months, but I think I’m ready to return to it.

I spent the last three seasons living my life. For years, since I was a teenager (maybe earlier), I had the sense that there was some fullness of experience that I wasn’t getting my hands on. I paired with a crippling fear of what may come should I try to get to wherever that fullness was, and I lived inside of small boxes. It’s hard to explain to people who have been less afraid to me how deeply joyful and fundamentally expansive and overwhelmingly delightful it is to say yes instead of no. It’s wild and full, and it’s oxygen to empty lungs.

I spent the better part of the year hacking away at all these vines that had grown up around my life. Light after darkness? When you can claw your way to it, it’s glorious. It shows up on your skin and in your bones.

One of my uncles said to me: You look happy in your eyes. And my mom said: You don’t look scared anymore. And countless people said: You just look different, in a really good way. I told them this is what good looks like on me.

This summer, I saw things that I’d once clung to slip off my skin like water.

Between May and November, I read very little. It wasn’t an active aversion – books weren’t a struggle, but no longer were they a salve. One of the first warm afternoons in May, I took a blanket and a stack of books into the yard. I spent three hours moving my blanket to follow the sun, and not once did I open my books. Over and over, I found myself more content to sit quietly with my own thoughts, than I was to fill my mind with someone else’s. What little I did read, though, was brilliant, and radical, and healing.

Television, too, has lost some of it’s appeal. I’ve written before about how much I love well made TV, and while that’s still true enough, I don’t have the same stomach for it anymore. I still haven’t seen the new season of Game of Thrones or Stranger Things, and I haven’t even cared to give Mindhunter a chance. This is nothing intellectual or enlightening, I can still fritter away hours like a champion, I just don’t have the need I used to to anesthetize. Why would I, when all of a sudden, mine was so bright, and so beautiful, so equal parts terrifying and exhilarating?

I also wrote very little. Circumstance often left me without a laptop or without the paper manuscripts I work off. A notebook and pen were easy to carry with me, so I wrote extensively for myself and about extensively. But the littleworldsI’vespentyearscreating? I left them empty and untended to for months. I am coming back to these, but I’m finding it harder to slip into someone else’s skin now that mine has grown so easy.

Of all the changes I experienced this summer, losing my anxiety was most exciting. At some point this spring, it began to steam off my body the way fog burns away underneath a rising sun.

Do you know what it’s like to feel at ease in the world? For a long, long time I didn’t. I’ve writtena lotabout howmy anxiety is (was) a constant negotiation. I carried Xanex and apples with me, chamomile tea and a book in my bag. I was always bracing for what next thing would cause that awful, nauseous fear. And then I woke up one day, and it was gone. New people? Crowded rooms? Spending time with someone new? With several new people? With a whole room of new people? May, June, and most of July were one long rope of anxiety triggers, and not once was I triggered. When a friend asked me how I was handling all these social situations I was describing, I laughed. Afraid of being rejected? People have done worse to me than not like me.

At the beginning of November, I felt the first tremors of dread that I’d felt in six months. It took me a minute to recognize that particular internal shaking, but when I did, I breathed through it. It’s going to be okay. Not because it’s meant to be, or because it has to be, but because it always has been.”

I cried, one Monday morning, when I realized that I’d spent an entire weekend meeting new people. Not once, in three days of introductions, did I want to peel back my own skin and hide. (Big, big thanks also to the man I was with).

I am now at ease.

It may be gone for just this season, but I really hope it’s not. Of all the things that have rolled away from me this year, my anxiety is the one thing I most hope will never, never return.

I spent much of June hot and in my underwear. I was living with people who were rarely at home when I was, and because of it, I spent most of my evenings alone, and on this beautiful porch. I’d set myself up with a book and maybe a glass of wine. The sun would set all pinks and oranges over the neighborhood. One night, I heard a little boy yell at this dad “no, you need to go to bed!” Another night, the pre-teens next door played basketball and worked on memorizing the lyrics to 1-800-273-8255. I listened The Weeknd (surprise soundtrack to my month of peace) on loop, and rarely opened my book. I was so much more content to lie on that sofa, and reflect on who I was. Who I might be. Life was (is, will always be) as astoundingly, fundamentally hard as it was ever, but the difference was (is) that it’s hard in ways I want to be awake for. I think that’s the reason why I’ve been foregoing so many of my old habits. I no longer want to be distracted. Comfort isn’t the endgame anymore.

When I was a freshman in college, I was far too deep in the throes of an anxious depression to experience that particular thrill of being on the precipice of that which you cannot fully grasp. June was me on that ledge. I called it an ecstatic explosion. I didn’t have any other words to explain the compounding joy of learning and relearning to live a life of my own choosing.

I know that I’ve rambling, and I know that a lot of this is vague, but this is my way of coming back. For two years, I found something hopeful and inspiring about writing here for an audience so small it could barely be counted. At some point, writing became another coping mechanism in my deep chest of survival tools. I’m ready to come back to blogging (I’m even giving this space a new name, y’all!), because I’m hoping it gives me a path back in to the fiction writing I’ve loved for so long.

Onward, right? Always, always onward.

because we also need rest

Clean Space
Unsplash

I spent yesterday at the Women’s March on Washington- MN in St. Paul, joining 100,000 (100,000!) others to stand in solidarity with one another and with the freedoms we fear this new presidency will curtail (if not abandon all together). We the people – women, and men, and LGBTQIA-identifying people, children and families, and elderly people with walkers, and mothers wearing their sleeping babies, school-age kids with signs they made themselves (Please Trump be nice, one read). It was an incredible, invigorating, and hopeful day. Representative Ilhan Omar told us: “Remember you are mighty, you are powerful, and you will never be defeated.” I said afterwards that it felt like we all showed up to make a promise to one another that this will be where it starts, not where it ends.

It was a powerful, powerful day, but it/the whole week was also powerfully exhausting. I’m deviating from my regular rhythm of long essays to share a handful of goodness from the past week or so.

LISTENING: Y’all, my love of podcasts runs deep (especially when road closures extend my commute even further). I listened to a lot of My Favorite Murder this past week, because I needed to clear up the backlog of episodes, and because the hosts, Georgia and Karen, are so funny. I also caught up on The Hilarious World of Depression. The first few episodes of this new show coincided with the bluest of my blue December days, and it was a double gift to listen to funny people talk about their experiences with mental illness. Fresh Air is a perennial favorite, but what was transcendent was this conversation from 2015 between Zadie Smith and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, both “brilliant women who are also total babes.”

READING: The first two books I read in 2017 were excellent. The first, Julia Glass’ Three Junes, a novel from 2003 that my mom passed along to me a few months ago, was the beautiful, elegant vehicle that I needed to process through my grandfather’s death. Glass wrote a novel that lets you hold life and death in both hands without either becoming heavier than they aught. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and it’s made me think again about my first, unfinished novel. After Three Junes, I jumped back into Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run, and devoured the the 300 pages I had left in two days. I came to this memoir as a fan, and on those terms, it could do no wrong, but this book can succeed on its own. What I found in Springsteen’s writing was an incredibly thoughtful meditation on the intersection between creating art and creating a self.

“I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story, my story, our story, and understand as much of it as I could. I wanted to understand in order to free myself of its most damaging influences, its malevolent forces, to celebrate and honor its beauty, its power, and to be able to tell it well to my friends, my family, and to you.”

Elsewhere, I’ve been devouring everything Bianca Bass has ever written, finding inspiration from the photography on Lumiere and Lens (Alyse’s writing is lovely too!), thinking a lot about our relationship to stuff, and asking this old question: how much does productivity actually hurt us?

WRITING: Editing, technically, a short story I’m very excited about. I don’t love writing short fiction, and only do it “when inspiration strikes” (a habit that’s total shit when it comes to my longer projects), but I find that I return to short stories when I’m stymied by whatever long project I’m working on. Right now, and I’ll probably write about this soon, I’m feeling haunted by my first novel. Can I ever really move on to a new novel if this one remains in a state of undone?

WATCHING: A very soft New Year’s resolution was to cut back on my TV watching. I love well made television, and have no shame over how much of it I’ve watched, but it can get consuming (especially when I re-watch all of Sex and the City even though I’ve seen it + hate it). But, this week, I dug Planet Earth out of the movie collection, and watched two episodes back to back: Mountains and Freshwater. Watching Planet Earth was the viewing equivalent of a massage. The big, beautiful, overwhelming, vast and complex world we live in is mesmerizing. It gave me the most peace I’ve had in a few weeks.

Finally, I always thought Minnesota had a lock on creating art out of snow, but I found these Japanese snow characters incredibly delightful. I’ve also resumed my pre-work/pre-dawn morning ritual, and reading this essay made remember why the 5:20 a.m. alarm clock is worth it.

What about you? What’s been getting you through the month?