December 1, 2024

Deep In December

So here we are, December.

Does this mean, we made it?

As November sort of slid/stumbled towards its conclusion, I realized that I had only posted once the entire month, and while I had written a story that was intended for this substack, only to have it picked up by the Petaluma Argus-Courier instead, the fact is, I have been having a hard time writing things down. Both the things that happen to me, and the things I am thinking about. And while I can’t say that this is entirely due to the election results, I will point out that I’ve been sort of… dry?... since then.

The thing about writers is… sometimes the desire to write becomes the very thing that gets in the way of us writing. I think there is a common misconception that Writer’s Block is either a lack of ideas to write about or a desire to write, but in my experience so long as you have a deadline you can actually squeeze some pretty good blood from a stone if you’re even a halfway decent writer with a semi-Protestant work ethic, and if that wasn’t the case we wouldn’t have newspapers and magazines, let alone the internet or most books written by Stephen King. The thing that gets in the way, in my experience, is the ambitions one has around writing, whether that’s the ambition to be original (good luck), the ambition to be excellent (almost never happens when you’re looking directly at it), or the ambition to essentially cast spells that will make the world a better place. See, sometimes I think if I can just write it perfectly, then everything else in my life (and everyone else’s) will become perfect and that, my friends, is when I will find myself staring at a blank word doc hitting the “u” key over and over and over again.

Is intellectual paralysis caused by the brain, or by exterior circumstances?

And how much of what we fear always comes back to the base anxiety that, whatever it is we are afraid of, when we finally have to deal with it, we shall do so poorly, inadequately: we shall fail… or worse, get it wrong.

What do you have to say when so many people you know are struggling right now?

“I love being a writer,” I remember telling my College Boyfriend, with whom I was still relatively close when EXILED (the play I’d kind of written about him) finally came into its own, the second production opening to rave reviews and ticket sales high enough that I was able to pay my rent with them that month. And I remember him laughing, saying, “I’ll try to remind you of that the next time you complain about it.”

I think, for a lot of us right now, we’re Following The Wall a bit, which is how I refer to periods in one’s life when you’re sort of just putting one foot in front of the other, hoping (hopefully) to find a way to the next thing, whatever that is. The image is one I lifted from Marguerite de Angeli’s 1949 novel THE DOOR IN THE WALL, in which a ten year old boy who survives the Black Plague’s sweep through 14^th century England only to be abandoned by his family, learns patience and strength from the monk who adopts him. During their journeying together, young Robin is frequently told, when faced with opposition, that “God doesn't put a wall in which there isn't a door”, but Brother Luke also acknowledges that sometimes one can’t look for the door, so much as follow the wall until the door essentially presents itself. It’s a pithy observation that is a genuine, if somewhat dry, nugget of wisdom that reminds me to focus on what I can do, and endure what too shall pass.

“Happy First Day Of December!” the head of catering at the Opera House says to me, as I race past her to my post, twenty minutes late for work on Sunday’s closing of CARMEN, and the first half of the 2024-25 opera season. The doors open in five minutes, two when I actually get to where I’m supposed to be, but then there is a ten minute delay as the stage manager holds the doors to the auditorium and pushes back that morning’s pre-show lecture. Two principals have called out sick, and standbys are being run through their roles, and everyone is a terrible mood, as patrons congregate on three sides of the building and wave at us through the glass, pointing angrily at their watches like we don’t know the time or that everything is behind schedule. When they are finally let in the day goes relatively smoothly, but there’s none of the usual vivacity of a closing. Everyone is kind of over it, from audience to staff to artists, and ready to go home, worn out from Thanksgiving weekend.

I actually had a lovely Thanksgiving this year, though the lead up days at the Food Bank were kind of a throw back to years past, with heavy rains, staff shortages, and my own distracted brain making for a rough Wednesday that ran late. Black Friday was placid enough, my first one home in years since the lateness of the holiday meant we’d already gone to the Dickens Faire the weekend prior. Saturday night, I even went to a movie in a movie theater, something I feel like I never do anymore, and saw WICKED. But the last evening of a holiday weekend often feels gloomy, even when you’re not in a countdown to what will almost certainly be a terrible four years for most Americans, and even Trader Joes is sort of empty when I stop by on the way home. Opting for groceries over vespers at Grace Cathedral (something I’d hoped to do before NUTCRACKER swallows every Sunday evening for the rest of the year) I postpone buying a Christmas Tree (what I’d really, really wanted to do tonight) because a man must eat, if he’s to keep following the wall.

Walking home through the twilight, I find myself thinking once again about what I’m going to write about, stressing out over how I haven’t posted in a long time, but still concluding that all the trivial subjects I’d planned to write about in November seem too trivial, and none of the bigger things I want to write about seem feasible at the moment. My body, recognizing that it is the darkest part of the year, mostly wants to eat and hibernate, and my brain, recognizing that we’re in a dark time in general, mostly wants to chat or escape, but my soul knows that when times get dark you need to do something. So what do you do?

Which is exactly when I round a corner and see three tea candles, two extinguished, yes, but one still burning, a tiny shrine on a ledge.

A light at the wall.

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Thank you for reading!

So, in a moment of just, fuck it, I'll give it a try, I am finally doing that thing people keep saying I should do and giving you the chance to support my writing. If you liked what you read today and would like to show that gratitude in cash money, you can help keep this middle-aged single writer turned food equity coordinator/usher/online content creator/social media manager in the black. I accept Zelle (it's my phone number) or CashAp ($Bousel) and I leave it up to you to decide what to give.

Obvuously, I'm not gonna put anything behind a paywall and I'm honored you read anything I write at all. I'm gonna try to write something here every Sunday, around this time, and if you have thoughts or feelings you'd like to share with me to write about I'd love that.

Be well. Reach out. You are a light.