Day 44: Federal Bureau of Unfucking

I got no writing done at all today. Bookstart was delayed by research roadblocks, and I’m way behind.

What I did get done—yesterday I got a haircut and other various body-maintenance procedures including GOING TO THE DOCTOR like a BADASS (I am terrified of the doctor). And cleaning the kitchen while having a fight with my husband. MULTITASKING. Then stayed up half the night unfucking a social situation.

Didn’t sleep well. Duh.

Today I committed bed-making, teaching a group of folks over at the senior center how to use a Mac, and picking up my animals from their vet checkups. Making dinner (roasted lemon chicken, arugula salad, parmesan pesto bread). Maybe half a blog post.

But no work. I just unraveled at the end of the day. I have no me left.

I’m trying not to feel bad about it. I can’t do anything to fix it. Telling myself I’ll write 10,000 words tomorrow is unhelpful and lolleriffic in its unlikelihood, so I just…I don’t know. Gotta keep on. Accept that some stuff will probably be a week late and hope that the publishing gods forgive me.

I feel really drained of creative energy, to be honest. Scraped over too much bread. GODDAMMIT I HAVE TO STOP LISTENING TO BON IVER IT’S ONLY MAKING ME EMO AS SHIT.

Anyway. THE THING IS I want so badly, so terribly badly to be this guy:

I want to be Dale Cooper! He is my spirit animal. I want to be all slick and competent and intuitive and enthusiastic and FUCK YEAH DAMN FINE COFFEE DIANE TIBETAN ROCK THROWING.

But most of the time I’m this guy instead.

And every night I swear I’m gonna be Dale Cooper tomorrow and some days, very few and precious days, I almost am. But today I was a panda on a rocking horse. Motherfucker.

Maybe tomorrow, I will be a better girl.


Day 35: Everyone <3 Unfucking


Yeah, I don’t even know. In the minus column, I didn’t make my bed or tidy up much of anything (by which I mean anything at all) or fold any of the three baskets of laundry that need to be folded.

The plus column is complicated!

I could NOT get up this morning. Just flat exhausted, second day in a row.

On the bright side, I have a sweet outfit on today. Black skirt with green swirly stripe, green curvy top, long brass tassel necklace, toast-colored clog heels. Booya. Did my makeup and everything.

Beastly was super stressed about his deadlines and I’ve been super stressed about mine. I got us breakfast at the cafe and dinner ingredients so I wouldn’t have to bother with the whole WHAT SHOULD WE HAVE FOR DINNER Eternal Debate. (Saffron-Honey Carnitas with Cumin Guacamole. I have been told my carnitas are comfort food.)

I went to my office. I’ve had these poems due for several days and every damn line is like PULLING TEETH. GOD.

I’m days late starting on the novella and novel because of these poems, and I guess I’m sort of done with them mostly but I am DUBIOUS as to their quality and it was SO HARD. BARF. I’ve just dragged myself to the end of both of them and sort of hate myself and feel like I’m already behind on the major projects because of it.

Came home, practiced accordion, which I hadn’t done for two days, and my performance can be summed up as blerrrrrg.

We got an accountant like motherfucking grownups. Intake appointment tomorrow. I’m terrified.

I don’t know. Today sucked. Yesterday sucked. I did things, the plus column is bigger than the minus and I can’t say I failed at the day, but every one was SO HARD. SWAMP OF SADNESS HARD.

ARTAAAAX. YOU STUPID FUCKING HORSE. YOU HAVE TO CAAAAAAARE. Though technically speaking it’s not the Swamp of Not Giving a Shit. That place would probably be pretty chill.

I live in hope of a good mood landing on me tomorrow. OH WAIT ACCOUNTANT. UNLIKELY.

Food. Drag Race. Poem editing. Moose pajamas.


Day 30: The Bridge on the River Unfucking

Welp, I broke the Not Posting gap by answering a question so I might as well TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY.

Basically, my body has adjusted to my ADD meds—which also help my anxiety and depression immensely—and I need to increase my (really very small) dosage. I found myself all:

And it wasn’t normal or good. I stopped making my bed or doing the dishes, I didn’t get any writing done at all—though I did keep practicing my accordion. I’m not proud. I’d been hiding under the couch all terrified of the sun and anxious and depressed and avoidant and like I WILL NEVER FINISH EVERYTHING HUG ME FELINE FRIEND. EMAIL IS TERRIFYING.

TURNS OUT I ACTUALLY NEED TO BE MEDICATED WHICH IS WHY I HAVE MEDICATION DUH GURL. I’m a little better now, having doubled up my pills until my doctor appointment on Monday. Yesterday was not too bad. I practiced, did the dishes, made the bed, wrote a short-short story and made roast chicken with chard and mushrooms and garlic for dinner, then conferenced with a student for the better part of an evening.

I have not been great with getting up early (my goal was before 9) BUT I have been up by 10:30 every day, and usually by 10, which is WAY BETTER than I was averaging before when up at noon was a good show. I have cleaned the kitchen, tidied up the living room, taken care of the chickens, practiced my accordion, and tweeted and blogged a bit.

But now I have to go to my office and work and SHIT YOU GUYS I have let this get bad. I have two poems due Saturday, neither of which I have any ideas about, a novella by 4/15 and a novel by 5/1. I think I still have it mathed so I only have to do 2000 words a day if I start the novel on Monday, but that still means doing the novella alongside the novel, which sucks anyway, but if I do 1000 words on that a day I’m still within my 3000 word limit and it’ll still be the most pleasantly paced novel writing I’ve ever done. Just have to get those poems done. Always knew the writing would be the hardest to unfuck.

Can you tell I used to be an obsessive counter? (Knitting fixed it, yo.)

I have no idea what to make for dinner tonight. Something with food. I’m trying to just get dinner ready before Beastly gets home—not because he’s a MAN and I’m a LITTLE LADY with slippers and cocktails at 5 and shit, but because we can be done eating by 6:45 and have an evening if I just organize my time and turn it out.

I love cooking, it’s the figuring out what to cook that sucks.

Or we can be done eating at 8:30 and have barely any time fore Mr. 6 am needs to go to bed. He makes breakfast and lunch on the weekends. I feel secure in my feminist boots.

So yeah. Slowly coming back to the land of the living. I should get my tits on and go to the office. Latrice, mama, you wanna play us out?


Fighting the Miserable, Tasteless Tofu of My Motivation

Chickens unfucked. Er…chickens lovingly cared for by earnest postmodern farmer grrl?

My actual chicken’s actual bitchface. That there behind her is an empty jar of mealworms. OH SNAP.

I emptied the dishwasher and put more dishes in. It is eternal, neverending, Xeno’s Dishadox: you can never truly arrive at 100% clean dishes, only approach it in increasingly small increments.

But I don’t want to do anything else. IT’S SO GREY OUTSIDE YOU GUYS. GREY LIKE MY SOUL.

I don’t want to put up towel racks or write or eat or brush the cat. I WANT TO WOE.

I was doing so well yesterday. That means I don’t have to do shit today, right? Bluuuuuuh. SO MUCH MUD OUTSIDE. SO MUCH COLD.

Four hours before I have to leave. Get up, Trinity. Go to your office.

Don’t wanna. I’m going. Don’t wanna. I’m going.


The Long, Slow Unfuckening of My Writing

I did something really scary today.

I only wrote 1400 words.

Ok, that’s a lot, right? I know, intellectually, that it’s a lot by any standard. But for me, it feels like failure.

What I usually do is procrastinate LIKE A MACHINE DESIGNED TO DO NOTHING and then finish a whole project in a day or a week or a month depending on the length. If I sit down to write I’m going to WRITE THE SHIT OUT OF THINGS. And then fall apart and hide form myself. I have done this literally my whole working life, and that includes grad school and let’s be BOLD AND UNFLINCHING here, undergrad and high school too. This is me and every deadline I’ve ever had:

I have no idea how to just do a little bit every day.

I know this is partly my ADD issues, but partly it’s just that like many of the things I’m trying to deal with here, I was either never taught the skill or I didn’t pay any damn attention when everyone else ever learned it.

In my head, I understand that if I wrote 1000 words a day, I’d have a novel in three months. And not be physically and mentally broken. But I panic at the thought of it, like it’s just TOO MUCH to stick to that, it’s so much EASIER to write 100,000 words in 4 weeks. After all, that’s how I’ve always done it. I have to be a superhero or I’m worthless, isn’t that obvious? I have to do it all at once!

But I’m not a kid anymore and I can’t keep whipping myself into exhaustion like I’m some kind of ELDRITCH DEMON PONY.

I know that. And yet.

Stopping in the middle of a story I could finish because I’d written 1000 words of it and that was my limit for today felt gut-wrenching. It does not feel like victory. It feels like I’m a slacker and a loser. I wrote 450 words of a blog post for tomorrow, and the first paragraph of a new book—which is a small bit of progress, too, as I only got hit with the idea train on Sunday and am biting while the hook looks irresistible rather than waiting until two years from now when I’m done with snuggling it before I even write a proposal. I have done this. With every book. You guys don’t even know. It seems like they come out so fast. But I do horrible things to myself over and over behind the curtain.

So this is my plan, which is going to be brutally hard for me. I am trying to commit to it. Every day, write not less than 1000 but not more than 3000 words, not including blog posts. Am allowed to take weekends off. I want to say I can take other days off when I’m caught up, but there is no catching up in this industry. DO IT. 1000 words ain’t nothing. I gotta pace myself before I break myself, aw yeah. MODERATION IS GANGSTA I SWEARS.

I’m scared.

Page 1 of 1