Creative Burn Out

Seven years ago or so, I came back from Shanghai and “shut down” this blog. I said goodbye and figured I was never coming back (silly of me). I didn’t really think I was burnt out. I stopped really reading around then too. I’ve had my ups and downs with that but a lot of my drive to read, and the joy I had in it, wasn’t there. I didn’t see the gross scabs all over my creative brain. I just soldiered on because I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I had to be okay. I am not the depressed one or the anxious one. I’m the one who holds it together, who holds people together. I was starting over again in Ohio. New relationships, new church community, new job. I felt exhausted all the time just trying to adjust back to the States.

Three years ago (or so) my church situation sort of blew up. There was a scandal that came to light all over again and the pastors handled it badly. Pastors are just humans, like anyone else. We can’t do better until we know better. I have the ability now to look back and see that they were trying their best. However, it was not great. As the only woman leading a community group full of single woman (and consequently the only single woman in any sort of leadership role at the time), I felt a weight press down on me. I ended up choosing to leave because I didn’t feel like my theological values lined up with theirs. I honestly didn’t feel like they respected women at the time, or that they understood the gravity of the issues they were walking through. I didn’t think I could weather it out, and my new relationship was budding and I wanted to be closer to the man who saw female pastors as authoritative, not blasphemous. (Reader, I married him.) So I left a whole community, wounded and not sure how to process the grief I felt.

Last year I got engaged. The anxiety and stress I felt surrounding the wedding was massive. I honestly don’t know how I survived it. Instead of following our gut and only having our immediate family at the wedding, we ended up having a micro wedding with less than 60 people in attendance. It was beautiful and I loved it. But the following weeks were rife with the emotional backlash of stuffing every negative thought and feeling into a box to deal with later. I raged about my in-laws. I raged about my family. I cried. I blamed John for a lot of the problems I was having and he bore it as no other man would have born it. He loved me through it all. Somehow I made it through that.

Now here we are and the urge to write, to read, to review, to critique, to paint and learn is being to crawl inside me. I’ve had it come up in the past seven years. It’s not like my imagination turned off all together. I actually completed a NaNoWriMo and started bullet journaling again after taking a few years off. But it feels so good and I’m beginning to look back and see the sores that had to heal to get here. Wounds that go back to freshman year of college, or before. Things that hit in Shanghai. Slices from the church. Slowly but surely, in this new space of slow and happy, I’m seeing the flowers of creativity bloom. Moss is creeping over the old wounds and shielding them so they can heal in the dark. I’m grateful. I’m ecstatic that I want to read new books. This too isn’t new, but I’ve read four new to me books this year and am craving the classics in a way haven’t for years. So I’m excited to reread some of the old and find new old books to explore.

I want to write. To read romances. To act out Shakespeare in my library. To laugh until I cry. To read things that break my heart again – there was so much in my real life, I couldn’t read it on the page. I’m ready to start something different this year. To learn to watercolor and code and dance again.

Happy 2024! Here’s to healing.

The World Keeps Turning

I just logged in for the first time since October and I was greeted with a notification from WordPress wishing me happy anniversary.

I started this blog 15 years ago today. My first post was on Jane Austen because I was doing an Austen book challenge at the time. I started the blog to join it. This blog and I have been together through so much. It’s been around longer than most of my friendships. It saw me through heartbreaks and deconstruction. Writing failures and a few things I’m proud of.

It taught me that I don’t really want to be famous. John Green left an instagram reel today about The Dream vs. his dream. His dream includes his family and writing and Indianapolis of all places. I’m grateful, because though I’ve never experienced The Dream, some part of me has always known that’s not what I want. I want to write. That’s what this blog is here for.

I’ve written book reviews, critiques, silly little articles. I wrote about Youtube Book Adaptations and Anne of Green Gables. I have countless parts of Very Bad Stories on here. And then there are these parts of my soul that this space holds. Three years ago I wrote a short snippet about a New Year’s Eve Kiss and this year, I got my first one from the man I married. I didn’t even know him when I wrote it. But it’s one of the best things here.

There’s this short story about a kitsune who escapes captivity from a circus that I adore. Another short story about the wilderness inside us, inspired by a friend’s blog (actually a friend’s brother’s blog…but I digress). I wrote the better part of my Rumplestiltskin story here, which started my senior year of high school during January (It was January 2008) and it was the most creative fueled time I can recall, before I ever participated in NaNoWriMo.

I think I’ve sometimes forgotten that I carved a space for myself here and that I never really needed readers. I wanted them at the beginning certainly. But slowly, as those 15 years have passed, that want has dissipated. This is my place. I write what I want, how I want. I write my heart, my imagination, my soul. And I’m grateful that 18 year old Nicole started building it.

I’m not making any promises for the new year – to be here or not. But it’s comforting to be welcomed back and congratulated on a milestone that I’d completely forgotten about. To spend some time in my beautiful online space to reminisce and get excited about the creativity that live in this island on the web. May we all have that kind of space to call our own.

Anxiety

I realized it only today. It’s been creeping up on me slowly and surely. Then today I felt it in my stomach. I still do.

ANXIETY.

There’s too much to do and not enough time to do it. We have to clean the house. I have a slew of issues/projects at work that have to get done and are way too big. Even when I break them down they are daunting to the extreme. It will take me forever to update this one spreadsheet and I’ve already failed. I have to cook dinner and clean and, omg, my car. It’s filthy. I haven’t done laundry in two weeks and I’m running out of underwear. If I put anything in the washer, it’ll sound like an arcade because it’s still broken and the drum just bangs around in there. Are my clothes actually getting clean? I have no idea. Thank God the dryer is fixed. I have to fold the laundry too. And tomorrow we have a social thing. Also Sunday. Also Monday. Do the social things stop soon? Keeping in touch with friends is hard. Why do I always feel so stilted and awkward around certain people? Will I ever feel like enough? I want to just have people be excited about what I’m excited about and, hey, vice versa. I’m tired and a little lonely, but I don’t want John to come in here because I’d rather process all this alone. Do I overshare? Are people not okay with me talking about my sex life now? Am I too obsessed with it? Should I just be quiet? Why am I like this? Why do I always talk too much? Oh, they want a funny story. I have nothing funny to say. I should be entertaining, that’s why they keep me around, right? That’s my contribution to our group. I think I had too much sugar today. God, I’m fat. I can’t handle how fat I am, but I’m walking now and that will be better. Will we ever sit down and plan for Puerto Rico? I asked a couple of times and nothing. Why am I always the one who has to push? Do I push too much? I should stop being so pushy. Am I listening enough? Loving enough? Giving enough? Do people feel better after they’ve been with me? That’s what matters – I need them to leave feeling lighter than they did when they came. That’s what I’m good for – my contribution to our relationship. I should write more. What if it’s bad? What if no one reads it? What if everyone reads it? Why do I write? Why do I breathe? Where’s the chocolate? I shouldn’t eat that. Too much sugar, which will spur on this anxiety spiral. Is it over? Will it stop soon? Are people annoyed that I talk about how I don’t want kids? No one asks about it, but everyone asks about people’s families. I want to talk about what I want, but maybe it’s too much. Maybe I’m too much. Stop being so emotional, Nicole. No one likes all the emotions you pour out on them, unless they are the sunshine ones. Be sunshine. That’s what they want. What if the only reason you had a better relationship with them this year is because their old friend wasn’t around. Now that they are back, will you still be good friends? Or will things just go back to the way they were? Am I the placeholder friend? Do people want to keep me forever, or am I the foster child? Does anyone actually love me, and if they do, do they love me like this or only when I’m happy? In three years, will I still be the special sauce, or will I just be me? Can I just be me?

Okay. I think it’s over.

You are loved the way you are by the people who matter. Deep breath. Drink some water. It’ll come back, in fact it’s still there, but the thoughts are out and you know the truth. And sometimes that has to be enough.

Survival Mode

I didn’t really think I was burnt out. I thought I was simply struggling to survive. It didn’t occur to me that moving every two to three years wasn’t actually an adventure or what I wanted. It was necessity driving me. First from the roaches, and then toward the love of my life. I was annoyed that he didn’t meet me in the middle, but the drive was doable and I didn’t realize the drain it had on me to constantly be moving back and forth. Spending nights there, having him at my house. I wasn’t sleeping well and every week I was eating fast food because I didn’t really want to cook.

After we got engaged I started seeing a dietitian because I was worried about my health and actually wanted to lose weight. After two months, I realized I literally couldn’t change anything. I was surviving. There wasn’t time to meal plan because all my energy was going toward wedding planning, pouring into my relationship with John and my family, and what little I had left was going to my friends. I was driving from Columbus to Dayton regularly and my home felt more and more like a zone of unhappiness than a resting place. I wasn’t financially struggling or even emotionally struggling- at least not in a way that people could see. I just had no place to stop and if I wanted to rest with John I had to drive to see him.

Now, we’ve been married less than two months and something has released in me. Suddenly we are together and I can settle. I’m not conflicted about spending time with anyone. I’m not drained by the constant travel. I’ve moved for the last time in the foreseeable future. (We are hoping to be here for a while). I’m sleeping well, I’m eating well. I’m back to seeing my dietician and making real progress. And looking back I see the burn out. I see the stress and the overcommitment. I see the desperation. I’m so grateful to be in an oasis for a while. I’m not struggling so much here. I’m resting. How glorious.

The Page of Nothing

It can stare at you. The blank page. It has eyes when there are no words on it that manage to disappear when the words come. It’s like the page knows that you have nothing to say and condemns you for it. Whatever words come to your mind aren’t lofty enough or erudite enough. They lack vivacity. The dialogue is stale. The characters are one-dimensional. The spirituality is lacking. No one will really care anyway. The blank page conveys all of that with its soulless eyes.

The minute a word hits the page, those eyes run away and the more you write, the more you fill the page the more the words echo. The eyes may be gone, but the accusations remain and they are the teeth. They bite and gnaw you away into nothing. Suddenly you find yourself afraid to even open the computer. What’s the point when none of it is good? When your ideas are rotting and your characters are annoyed at you because you have nothing to give them. No life left.

Then one day, you stare at the eyes of the blank page, and you feel the bite of the teeth and you think, “Well, it might hurt, but a page of nothing is better than this.” So you write some nonsense and something inside you fills. Then you do it again. And again and again. The blank page doesn’t go away. It isn’t miraculously struck down by your imagination and brilliance. It mocks you still. But it’s not so daunting anymore. Because you know you’re capable of driving it away with absolutely nothing. Just words, filling the page one at a time, declaring you belong here, even if it’s drivel. And isn’t that your motto anyway?

The blunderings, blatherings, and otherwise inexplicable drivel of a very silly writer.

It’s always Chicago and the hot dogs

I lived there for four years, give or take a couple months. But it’s basically where I grew up, where I started to be this version of myself. I didn’t get there until I was 18. I was a sophomore in college, and I didn’t realize cities could be dangerous. Chicago was kind to me. I have so many core memories and learned so many life lessons. I probably don’t realize everything I know because of the city.

I was just there for a mini bachelorette deal, because several of my friends had bachelorettes in the city and I wanted to do some of the same things, or try anyway. We ended up getting in to The Violet Hour by sheer luck and tomfoolery. It was delightful and our server mentioned that if we wanted food, there was a little Italian place downtown that served great wine and great food. “Oh, what is it?” Liz asked. “Quartinos.” he replied, and like that: CORE MEMORY UNLOCKED.

Mom and I were visiting for the first time, to check out Moody and we didn’t want fast food. She wanted wine because long drive and long day. And honestly, our accommodations weren’t the best. Quartinos was maybe two blocks from the hotel. We sat at a tiny table outside, I’m pretty sure, and ordered calamari. It was delicious and it was the first time I had garlic aioli. That moment is in my head probably forever.

As I drove home after the bachelorette, I ended up (by accident) on Lake Shore Dr. And I spent nearly the whole drive crying and remembering. Living in Lincoln Park for a summer and the Farmer’s Market every Saturday. Going to the LP zoo in the winter and enjoying the light show. Walking to Navy Pier after dark, when it was empty and glorious and ripping my pants trying to climb the anchor. Weekly trips to Cabrini Green alone and realizing that the danger of the city might not be minorities, because drunk frat boys on St Patty’s day backing you into an alley were the real danger. My first Chicago dog and how yummy it was. Going to the Greek Orthodox Church and feeling my Greek roots for the first time. The Harold Washington Library conservatory on the top floor and the museum they had up there. Living in Boys Town for a few months and feeling safe in the city, surrounded by drag queens, for really the first time. Being told by an 18-year-old that I didn’t know how to work, and realizing he was right. I’d never had to put in real effort at anything. Watching people in their wedding attire take pictures on the street. Learning about living alone and what that truly means. Meeting some of the loves of my life and forging strong bonds over shared experiences.

I miss you already. You will always have part of my heart and always feel like home in some way. Thanks, Chicago.

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The last few weeks, or maybe months, have been chaotic and painful. Wedding plans, wedding arguments, harsh words, family gone, curt dismissals, hair catastrophes, dreams dying, car issues, weird vibes, and so many hurt feelings. My family has a hard time seeing each other and ourselves in a positive light. My mother is too pushy. My father is too selfish and angry. My sisters are too careless and neurotic and also too selfish. I’m too judgmental. It’s all too much. And I’m predisposed, maybe even trained, to see the bad everywhere.

In the midst of moving, of planning to marry the man I love, and of trying to still be everything to everyone, I’m bobbing into a scary part of the sea. There’s no one else for miles, either floating along with me or deep below. I can’t really see that far down from here. I keep wishing I can turn into an anchor, grab onto the heavy assurance peace brings, and sink to the bottom. It’s beautiful down there. I’ve been there a few times before, and it’s always a deep calm blue. But I’m not an anchor. I’m a buoy. I’m tossed by every circumstantial tide and the waves of emotions they bring with them. I’m trying to breathe. To sink. I’d take floating at this point. If I could lie facing the sky and just feeling it all roll below me.

It’s not just bad things, like not being invited to the party or feeling misunderstood by my fiancé on a daily basis. It’s the quick splashes of joy too. The way he says “I love you.” When my mom comes over and takes a couple hours to listen to me process and to help me find what I want for wedding flowers now that we’ve been sort of backed in to doing them. It’s the phone call from my dad to tell me “You’re fine, Cook. You don’t have cancer. You’re doing okay,” that resulted in me spitting out my drink laughing because hey, he’s not wrong. Any day without cancer is a good day. My older sister has been sending me reels and memes every day because she’s thinking of me.

My mother is too giving of her time. My father is overly generous but may not always know how to show it. And my sisters are so much fun, and full of laughter, and always make me smile. These are the things I’m trying to focus on.

But even within these moments, the storm of emotions rolls on. Bad, good, ugly, beautiful. It feels like it will never end. It never stops. I take a few minutes of prayer and for a split second I feel the water calm. But then it’s gone. I want to sink down to the bottom of the ocean. I want to feel the tides but only move a little, because I’m so heavy with that peace. I want to see the other people down there. Or even the people up here. Maybe wave at them. But for now I’m alone, and I’m drowning.

Transitions

I didn’t realize until I met with the dietician. No one has ever asked about it before. But as we navigated the sensitive landscape of my relationship to food, she asked, “What are the big obstacles or changes in the last year that might have changed your eating habits?”

I thought about it and then said, “Well, I mean, I move every year or so.” I thought about that for a while after the session. The last time I lived anywhere longer than three years, was in high school. My recent moves have been in the same state, which is a change, but I haven’t lived in one building consecutively longer than 2.5 years since I returned from China. I’ve been transitioning in one form or another my whole life.

I know that transitions are completely normal. Emotional transitions, different stages of life, religious transitions and belief systems. But there is something to be said for going through those transitions in one physical place. I’m about to get married and move, two pretty huge life changes. I cannot wait to nest. Even knowing that this home will probably only be for a couple years, I’m so eager to settle in. My fiancé is amused. He keeps saying things like, “you’re surprising me. I though you’d be bored, staying in one place.”

It’s not a big realization or anything. No big takeaway either. Just something I realized I’m craving. Constancy. Consistency. Rooting. For a long time. Past three years. Past five years. Past ten maybe. Knowing my neighbors really well. Being the person who brings new neighbors cookies or casseroles, or offering to help them move in.

Is that what heaven will look like? I hope so.

It comes when you least expect it

A few days ago I started writing again. I don’t know what happened. It’s been simmering in the back of my mind since last August. I’d revisited a couple of times, but wasn’t left with anything I liked, so I put it away again, for a rainy day. Then I was wedding planning in the complete silence and it was there. The story. I cried later, because I missed it so much. But in the moment, I put it off, since my brain was too busy with work and promised myself to come back at the end of the day. And I did. I kept that promise to myself.

I know myself pretty well, okay? I’ve been procrastinating writing for years. I love it, but when it doesn’t go the way I want it to, I abandon it for numbing entertainment and constant stimulation. I’d prefer that to the struggle with my characters and plots that slide sideways. I don’t think I’ve ever been more surprised to note that I kept that promise. And that I’ve written several times since. I followed that thirty minute session with a fifteen minute one the day after. And the day after that I started working out some of the outline kinks, ones that I’ve procrastinated since I finished the outline of the second draft and realized the ending needed to be changed. I had my fiancé read the first three scenes and started editing them based on his suggestions. (I’ve never felt so confident in scenes I’ve written before. They are phenomenal.)

And suddenly I’m here. I don’t know how I got here. Time has passed. Posts have been sparse. But I always manage to come back, for intervals anyway. I had no intention of doing so this time. I actually told myself, “Don’t pressure yourself to blog too. It’s good to just do this. To just be writing again.”

It is good to be writing again. But am I really writing if I’m not also blogging? I’m much better at allowing myself to simply exist now than I was when I started this space some ten or twelve years ago. Or more? When did I start this place? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It feels like home.

I’ve experimented and stretched muscles here and learned how to create viral content if I want to. I did it twice. It was a lot.

I’ve learned to write what I love. And that it won’t go viral and no one will comment even if I beg them, because I didn’t write it for them. I wrote it for me. That New Year’s Kiss story from a few years back? I wrote that for me. I finally got my new year’s kiss. It wasn’t the way I wrote it. But it was okay. I’m going to keep writing what I love. Whimsical stories that stretch me. At least when I have the capacity. Depression steals creativity’s very soul. So we’ll work around it.

In the meantime, it’s good to be back. I’ve missed you. I’m glad you showed up when I wasn’t expecting it. I’ll take advantage of it; I promise.

Werewolves Part 3

Improbably stunts? CHECK.

She nearly ran into a tree when she heard the howl. Immediately she changed direction and charged toward the sound. She reached out her senses and felt for her packmates. Gregory and Samira had somehow gotten cornered, backs to the mountain. Marti was running back to the rendezvous. 

Good girl. She thought. As she ran she sent a thought to Loky and received an affirmative. She saw her quarry as she ran and noticed the moment the wolf on the left noticed her, half-turning to snarl. She leapt over all four wolves, hit the rock beyond with her feet and flipped, landing in front of Samira and Greg. 

Her ankles sang. She really needed to practice moves like that more often. Ow. 

The wolves growled at her and she smiled, going for charming. 

“Oh sorry, did I interrupt something?” Rather than wait for an imminent attack, she lashed out a kick to her left, getting the wolf who seemed a little less observant off guard and then dropping to the ground as the other jumped at her. 

RUN. She commanded.

Samira nipped Gregory and they sprinted off toward the rendezvous.

Jenn grabbed the wolf with both hands and threw with all her strength toward the wall of stone. The other wolf gained his feet and staggered after them. She leapt to her feet as well, but rather than chase him, she jumped up and grabbed a handhold in the rock and then began to climb up to a ledge. When she looked below, the remaining wolf was growling up at her. She smiled and waved. Then she disappeared from view, making her own way back to the rendezvous and trusting that Loky would take care of the rest. 

***

Kyle picked up speed and soon was running all out behind the intruders. Where had that woman come from? He felt Damien coming up behind him, and pushed himself to go faster. He’d really never hear the end of it if they lost these two and Damien managed to catch him when he’d had a decent headstart. 

A moment later the other wolf drew even, and after sending a glare his way, pushed ahead. 

Yeah, he was in trouble. 

He heard a yowl and then saw a giant black panther in their path. HE stopped next to Damien who was crouched low, wary.

What the fuck?

They had an exit plan, or so it appears. Damien growled.  The cat hissed. 

Do we attack? Kyle hadn’t felt so uncertain since his original training days. 

Damien darted in and the cat swiped out, catching him on the muzzle. The he, she? Jumped into a tree and disappeared. 

Come on pup, we need to make a report. 

But, shouldn’t we-

We won’t be able to follow them if their any good, and if they had a plan to get out, they are good. How did they even get this far into the forest without coming into contact with our patrols anyway? There are two or three groups before us that should have caught them. He began to trot. I’m having a word with Alex.

Kyle followed, glancing back, and for the first time, up. He caught the sight of green eyes glowing before he turned and ran to catch Damien.

Werewolves Part 2

It’s short, but sweet.

This was boring. No one ever came into the forest. No one ever snuck over the giant mountain to come up at them from behind. Karl huffed and flopped onto his stomach. His watch partner, Damien nudged him, but he ignored him. 

Stop sulking. 

Karl whined. It’s not like I meant to knock over that cooler. I don’t know why I’m being punished like this.

I don’t know why I’m being punished like this. Damien retorted. 

Karl snorted and then caught a whiff of something strange. He got up and turned, sniffing the air.

What is it pup? Damien turned with him, but looked around.

Smell that?

Damien snarled. Smells like cat. 

Karl heard it then, the pounding of footsteps coming toward them.

Two maybe? He asked.

Three. Damien said. Spread out, into the trees. We’ll let them pass and double behind them. Go wide, they might veer direction. We want to catch them against the mountain.

If there are three maybe we should –

No time to call.

With that Damien ran into the trees and shaking a little, Karl sprinted in the other direction. He heard them as he ran, padding through the familiar terrain. They crashed and bumbled, not even trying to be discreet. 

Are they idiots, you think?

Untried probably. They’ll learn. There was quiet menace in his tone.

Once they’d passed, Karl turned and slowed. He spotted Damien and let his tongue loll out. The hunt began.