My start to Summer this year was intense, my sister's wedding was Memorial Day Weekend. I was sick, sick-sick with aches in my lungs and body, a virus took me down and I had to stagger through, smile plastered because you can't be sick on your sister's wedding day. You have to be joyous. I was, but I was also tired and sad because I was sick. Regardless, it was a good day, a good weekend full of family and laughter. The months planning up to the wedding were chaotic and busy so I planned to get the hell out of town right after and I did. I got in my truck and drove to New Mexico.
I love the road. I love driving longs hours, listening to music, audiobooks, my own thoughts. I love the solitude of the road, passing cars and trucks, moving into my own. I was ready to get away.
I'd spent a lot of the last year working on myself. I was a mess a year ago, angry, betrayed, and mostly pissed off at myself for not listening to my instincts. After the mess I had a few months of chaos, distraction; I bumbled through somewhat rudely until I couldn't anymore. Enter a more consistent meditation practice, contemplation, the clearing out of years and years of crap.
Fast forward to the beginning of Summer. I was ready ready ready for change, for joy.
I put a lot of myself into my writing, a lot of my vulnerabilities show up, the sharp or rough edges, especially in my poetry. I'm okay with that, the best writing is open and emotional. I wrote a short story before Summer. I wrote it for Las Dos Brujas Workshop, but I also wrote it to exorcise some demons. I remember working on it, crying so hard into my keyboard I couldn't even type. I chucked all sorts of wounds into that story, The Half Wife, so I could be rid of them. After I finished it I lay down on the floor and cried. I had so much to get rid of. I felt exposed and raw after writing it.
I'm so grateful I wrote that story, that it tore me open. I'm so glad I bled all over those pages. I needed it. I was still open when I got to the desert. Everything changed there. I reconnected with old friends, I reconnected with the best part of myself, I made new friends, I fell in love.
The last couple of months I keep looking at myself and wondering why I feel so strange, then I realize this"strange" feeling is happiness. I didn't realize how much of the last few years I've spent in a kind of holding pattern while I worked through things, while I struggled with my writing and my relationship to being a writer. No more, no more. I am happy. I am comfortable in my creative skin and joyous in the work. I know it'll ebb and flow, such is the nature of creativity but I've been in the flow and fuck, I like it.
I've decided to go ahead and work on the second book of the trilogy even though I still am working on editing the first book. I need to get into that place, where my lovely character is growing and moving on, transforming. I've been frustrated with a lot of the female protagonists I've been reading. I want to yell at them Rescue yourself!!! So much plot. So much history. Last weekend my new Love was visiting me and I talked with him at length about the world my books inhabit and I was really surprised at how much I know. I really have worked my ass off to think about the mythology and culture of the place; I have so many interweaving plots and nuanced characters. I have to trust myself more, trust that my subconscious knows the deal and keep moving forward. I love it.