The Great Grey Beast February

The sun may be shining and my wife may be wearing shorts (when isn't she?), but it's still winter in the Midwest. Clive Barker describes this ugly month as a great grey beast in The Thief of Always, and I've never heard a more apt description. 

Billie and Binx agree.

Last night, after I finished whining about a persistent, yellow-glowstar-snot cold that I've been trying haplessly to overcome, Kelsey observed that this is the time of year in which there's nothing to look forward to. The good holidays are in the rear-view mirror, our work schedules have come unsynchronized, and the cheery colors of spring look so far away.

In the past, I've had a lot of trouble with this part of winter, and I either overcompensate for my misery or let the great grey beast swallow me like it did Harvey Swick. My timehop app informs me that last year, I was in full overcompensation mode. Around this time, I published Necessaries and was taking it to workshops and a book signing and had started a GoFundMe to raise money for a booth at Pride. On top of that, Kelsey and I were planning our wedding. The future was radiant.

As for this year? There are definitely some beacons of hope on our calendar, including a much-anticipated wedding for some good friends of ours. Heck, as I've been drafting this post, I received an email notifying me that my bridesmaid (bridesmatron?) dress is ready for pick-up, and I'm pretty jazzed about that. I also have some painting commissions that will be fun to complete. Check out this one, the first I'd done in about a year:

It was a Christmas gift for the aforementioned betrothed, actually. They have such marvelous furbabies.

But the weight of the winter is still pressing down on this household. I've been more stressed and anxious than usual, fretting over bills and deadlines and a financial planning course that often makes me feel like an ignoramus. On top of that, there's the whole thing with our president ushering in the apocalypse and whatever. I worry about not doing enough, not saying enough, but when I see the horrors unfold, my heartrate spikes and I have to take a timeout to re-collar my rampant anxiety.

Historically, I've used writing to calm my nerves, and I've been doing that non-stop in any free moment since last summer, but in a very strange way. After publishing Necessaries, I got a bit anxious about the future of my writing. I have one project that I really love that isn't working the way I want it to, and another that I've thoroughly plotted but haven't made much creative headway with. I decided to set those projects gently to the side and write something completely different to get back in the groove. Something to experiment with some character-types I'll be using in another story. Something low-pressure, high-reward. Something quite ridiculous.

It was supposed to be small. It is now about the length of Necessaries. 

I accidentally wrote a free three-part novel under a pseudonym that, for reasons you'll quickly understand, can never be published. And, since it's out there, I thought I may as well share it with you, in case it helps you to withstand February as it's done for me.

But I'm neurotic and self-conscious, so if you want to know why I'm being a secretive weirdo about this side-project that has devoured my creative resources for half a year, you'll have to search for the answer yourself. I've hidden an Easter egg on my website. Well, I didn't do a great job of hiding it, but it's here somewhere. It will take you to my accidental novel.

Why did I do this? I don't know. I think I needed something that didn't have the same weight riding on it as my usual writing does (not that there's actually that much pressure there). I got addicted to getting feedback for this story, and I think that's why I've let it turn Audrey II on me. So many people are enjoying this story, and if I can bring a little sunshine to their lives during these batty times, that's worth something! 

Anyway, my real books haven't been neglected, and I'm coming up with a schedule for myself in which I can balance my various projects, hobbies, and studies. Whatever I do, I want it to make people happy, and make me happy, too.

Take that, February.

Bad at ________

Yes, that is our basement. Yes, the water is up to Kelsey's ankle.

Every so often, I write a "Bad at ______" post in which I talk about how ill-equipped I am for basic real-world struggles, because I think it's funny how bad I am at being a human. The thing is, lots of people are bad at being human, because the concept of being a good human is based on a perfect vision of humanity. A good human pays the bills on time, eats balanced meals, has healthy spending habits, doesn't cry over things like "the puppies are such good girls and are too perfect and pure for this world," etc. 

Nobody hits all the "good human" marks all the time. If you know someone who does, then they're an android, and it's your civic responsibility to turn them over to the authorities before they can achieve their sinister goals.

An English teacher I had in high school loaned me a life motto that I didn't understand at the time but have come to embrace so completely that the words have likely embedded themselves in my DNA and will be passed to my offspring whenever Kelsey and I have the money, emotional stability, and tolerance for human feces required for child-rearing. (That English teacher would NOT have approved of the previous sentence.) The motto is:

Fake it 'til you make it.

The best part about that mantra is that everybody uses it. We're all a bunch of fakers, doing some human things right ("I paid the gas bill this month despite it increasing by almost $100 from last month!") but doing other human things wrong ("I had a panic attack because an adult was mildly disappointed in me and so I made a giant plate of nachos for myself to soothe my nerves!"). Sometimes we hit somewhere right in-between ("Our basement flooded and instead of falling face-down in the water and waiting for the devil to take my soul I dealt with a plumber, didn't cry in front of him, and then drank a celebratory Manhattan instead of checking on the damage to the basement right away!"). 

We're all playing the same game. We're pretending to be grownups, and in the process, we are grownups. We'll never be the perfect human. But we'll be pretty much good humans, who pretty much go to the dentist sometimes, and pretty much know how to file our taxes. It's OK to be bad at stuff. 

This post has been brought to you by: "I need to justify why I stink at adulthood," "Please laugh at me; it's how I determine my self-worth," and Doc Hudson, the Actual Best.

Happy New Fear

Holy wow, I'm just now recovering from my wild NYE celebration! Man, you should have been there. The music was bangin', the drinks had flecks of actual gold leaf, and at midnight, Catwoman-era Halle Berry descended from the heavens and kissed me.

Just kidding. Here's a picture of what actually went down:

Not pictured: Kelsey's favorite CAH card, "tasteful sideboob"

That's not even wine in our glasses, guys. It's grape juice. Straight up "Communion at a Methodist church" grape juice.

Anyway, brushing aside that weird thing I said about Halle Berry (and how middle school me kept a novelization of the 2004 Catwoman film in my locker at all times so I could stare at Halle Berry in a catsuit on the cover between classes while fiercely repressing my homosexuality), happy 2017!

At least, I hope it's a happy 2017. Let's face it. If we ask a Magic 8 Ball if 2017 will be better than 2016, I guarantee it will answer: "OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD," followed by condescending laughter. There is a lot to be afraid of this year. Take it from a professional worrier.

But I'm still holding out hope. Out of the pessimism of 2016, many new and impassioned voices are rising. I see movements of love on my Facebook feed, and hear people asking, "What can I do to help?". In our last days before the regime- uh, I mean, before the inauguration, that kind of desire to protect and support each other is vital. 

With that in mind, I truly wish you a happy 2017. May it come with endless love, safety, and progress. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of tasteful sideboob.