2022 got away from me. Work went crazy with 2 separate promotions, Sarah and I got a horrific case of Covid that took us fully down for 2 months and we still have some residual Long Covid even 6 months since then, really bad stuff happened in the middle of summer that kind of crushed my sense of self-worth…
It was just a lot.
I did finish a novel. An original, Urban Fantasy that I’ve just sent to my small beta group tonight. I’m going to try to query it. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll go back and reconsider self-publishing it and Dragonroe just so both get to breathe in the world.
2022 was a hell of a year. I catalogued it along the way most often by writing poetry on Twitter in the middle of the night. So what I’m doing now is going back and putting one of those poems up each month of 2022. Not in any specific order other than the order in which I wrote them. But a poem I wrote in August might show up in March. It doesn’t matter.
The point isn’t the time – the point is that I’m still here, I’ve always had feelings, and I’m okay sharing them now.
I can’t promise a whoooole lot more posting in 2023, but I can try. Especially if this query thing goes anywhere, probably this should be a slightly less dead space!
The 4 people who read this – thanks for sticking with me.
Yep, I definitely wrote this one about dipping my toe into Mastodon given all the *gestures at madness* at Twitter. But it also works for the new year, so…
It’s not that I’m afraid of change.
Change as growth, change as a delightful surprise, change as a leap into a wondrous unknown – no, how could I fear those?
It’s change as loss.
And it isn’t fear.
To know that tomorrow, something loved, someone cherished, a steady truth that brought peace will vanish
Only to be replaced by something new, someone absent, a starting over,
That isn’t fear.
I loved my little broken world.
I’ll love the new one too.
I just didn’t want to say goodbye.
As an author —
My characters think my thoughts, feel my feelings with me.
They go where I’ve been & dream my dreams.
So when I feel something new, something without words yet,
I must either gift it to them or create someone new to carry it.
How else can I ever understand myself?
It has many names: writer’s block, ennui, loss of interest.
A gray cloud poured over the soul so nothing can grow, the soil turned to ash. All those seeds stagnant in the cold ground.
It can ache, it can cut, it can weep. In every form, it hurts.
But it can also be an illusion.
Not all flowers thrive under the sun, after all.
The cloud may not be a lack or a loss, but a sign.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
Choose flowers yearning for shade and plant them instead.
Perhaps not the garden intended, but the one ready to grow.
And it will still be beautiful.