December Regrets

What I did and did not do last year.

I recall beginning one January with the best of intentions. Substack-wise. Posting once every two days. Ambitious. Too much so, because I was fresh out of material by February.

I recall a scrap of AWP gossip that “I’m Not Dead” was the horniest Substack, which I took faintly as a compliment. How else does one take something like that?

This time of year I guess I’m supposed to list my years accomplishments. Not many. I published a book with Rochak Publishing, Angelina at the Serrano. The sin and redemption addiction novel that an old professor had wanted Jet Set Desolate to be. At least in intention.

For the first time I had a fan send some books for me to sign, with returned postage envelopes, which was a huge thrill. My fiance was impressed. More on that later.

I submitted a poem to an editor I’ve worked with before and “Chelsea Motel #5” was published in Avalanches, an anthology of art, poetry and prose inspired by Leonard Cohen.

I submitted some stuff to an new editor and an unfortunate series of events ensued which I do not entirely understand but it left such a bad taste in my mouth that I didn’t submit anything else for practically the entire year. I didn’t write anymore, either.

Dear reader, I became addicted to video games. The worst! Do not let this happen to you if you want to preserve a writing practice. I was recovering from Long COVID and felt like putting my effort towards things that made me feel entertained and accomplished instead of yelled at for no reason I understood.

I was weak. I am human. Still, unfortunately.

It makes me sad to type this, as I wasted so much time and energy gaming when I was pounding out the pages for most of my life and had finally reached a good place with it. A place which felt like success.

A place where I have weird haters. Quite a few, as I have been informed. People in Los Angeles who hate that my best friend and I are who we are. People in Portland that are,”mad that I got this house.” Apparently a few lengthy Reddit strings exist, not that I have the stomach to read that kind of shit. I stay away from the dark web, in general.

Anyway, petty grievances of my writing year aside, I am thrilled about the good things which have happened. I acknowledge that my hands downloaded and play these games because sometimes a bitch needs a break.

I dealt with the pain in my life by writing about it for a very long time. Before I discovered a different anesthetic. Which didn’t require going to the core of the pain and writing my way out until pools of blood formed around my writing desk. Lying back in bed playing idle video games made for 4-12 year olds was a calming anesthetic, but I’d like to move forwards. As in backwards. To writing again.

The complexities of online dating led me to start writing poetry again. I have a short story brewing. I’d rather post them to my Substack and blog. Practice work is not my best work but I would like it be heard again on a lower register.

More to come.