Hello, and happy Friday!
I hope that something happened in your life that made you happy, this week. For me, that included a live version of my new favorite song, season 3 of The West Wing, a musical theater bar, the manifold theories about Taylor Swift’s new album, and (not a typo) temperatures less than seventy degrees in NYC.
Not going to lie, though, it was a pretty rough week, made worse because probably eighty percent of my stress feels self-imposed, and preventable, had I just done some yoga and Chilled Out. Or so I tell myself.
But! I wrote things this week, and that felt redemptive. I’m doing a thing where I write twenty-five short stories before I’m done being twenty-five, which as of today is 39 days away, and I’ve finished two stories, so you could say my progress is exponential.
I did a similar thing in January 2018, where I wrote 30 stories in 30 days. Then, I wrote about space battles, young love on the set of South Pacific, physicists spooked about a story passed around in an IRC chat, touring musicians breaking up in a crowded restaurant, the dissolution of a startup called LuckyStrike, two consultants in a snowy cab ride from Boston’s Logan Airport thirty years in the future, a writer asking a politician ex-lover if she can write about her in a memoir, and YouTubers at an ill-fated New Year’s party. So who knows what I’ll write about this time! The other day I wrote a scene where two exes recall one person throwing a dessert plate at the other, and that’s a big mood.
I’m doing it all again mostly to show that I can, and because all year I’ve been in a scary, static place with writing, and although even thinking the phrase writer’s block has the unhelpful effect of scaring me further away from writing, it’s a true thing that is happening. So, hitting pause on the other thing I was working on in July, because I am no god, and doing this instead, or at least until the calendar turns and I’m a whole lousy year older.
I leave you with Brad Trumpfheller’s “Tomorrow, No, Tomorrower:”