A transparency post this week.
I attempted whimsical snark, and the piece fell flat. I knew it. Little Miss Muse knew it and tucked her bottle rockets and lavender glitter into her tutu and stomped out of the room.
The Jiggle Dragons knew it. Not one little wiggle out of them as I attempted lightheartedness.
Trudi, the Office Goose, knew it and started edging herself away from the desk, her little scooter wheels squeaking under her stony girth.
Most of all, my readers would know it. I believe they’re intelligent humans who happen to be curious about writers and their worlds and would rather have the raw truth than words packaged in red heart boxes and satin bows—but from that off-brand company that makes a killing this time of year on sub-par chocolates with the waxy aftertaste.
I know I’d rather take a chance on that Reese’s Cup rolled to the back of the cupboard so long ago that the chocolate has the beginnings of that white patina. It’s a little mushed, but it’s the real deal:
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A friend came over this week to help reorient me after weeks—months and months, really—of being stalled out on things around the house. I was in overwhelm and needed someone who wouldn’t let me start a giant endeavor I had no mental bandwidth for.
We’ve had three women’s estate belongings slowly creeping into every corner of our house. I’d gone quite blind to a lot of the clutter because I didn’t have the capacity to decide what to do with it.
It all happened so quickly. There was soooo much.
As we cleared things out, I realized that parts of my house had become an archaeological time capsule for others.
Buried under all the estate layers, I discovered a pile of my own making. Unhung art pieces for my gallery wall. Projects and supplies for things I wanted to tackle around this time last year. Last year.
I also discovered an onion in my kitchen that I likely bought early last year. And that rogue Reese’s Cup.
Anyway, my personal to-do list was in that unearthed pile.
I don’t know the woman who wrote that list. My handwriting, but… I’ve lived a half dozen lives since then.
If I could sit down with her, we’d have a chat. Acknowledge that she’d been through… a lot. Congratulate her on her progress in navigating consuming darkness thus far with the equivalent of a penlight with a shoddy battery.
I’d flip open the 2025 calendar and review the year. I’d slide over a fresh bag of dark chocolate sea salt Lindt Truffles—the real deal chocolate—and tell her to buckle up. The chaotic life as she knows it hasn’t even begun to get interesting.
I’d tell her to drink more water. Get more exercise. Be outside as much as you can.
And, oh! You’ll want to watch out for that right rotator cuff and that nervous system—you’re going to want those suckers working at peak performance.
I’d advise her to say no more often, more forcefully, and without explanation. And don’t feel guilty about it.
She should absorb every micro-joy she can find. Catalogue and stockpile them. Obvious ones. Ridiculous ones. Childish ones. Rebellious ones. All the happy genres.
Hoard all the joy. It’ll be oxygen when your chest begins to crush.
Before saying goodbye, once she and I neared the bottom of that Lindt bag, truffle wrappers littering the couch and floor all around us, I’d tell her to keep writing.
Tiny bits here and there. A blog post. A journal dump. A really awful first draft (there’ll be gold in that). Projects in the open. Projects in private. All of it.
Sideways words poured from wounds and grief count just as much as well-ordered ones written from a state of calm and clarity.
Because to some reader out there, those will be the real deal words that could upgrade the shoddy batteries in their penlight.
Oh… yeah. And I’d tell that version of me to go clean her kitchen cabinets now because that onion is on its way out.
There’ll be a Reese’s Cup for her trouble.
