I look out the window and the snow is clumped on the tree branches in the woods, and it’s still falling like sprays of white woodchips. In the past, this view would’ve filled me with dread (because I’d inevitably be expected to go out in it), but today, when I have to go nowhere, it makes me feel cozy. So I’m going to read more pages in King’s The Shining.

I should start the day with working on a short story—I’ve been struggling to write lately. I watched a new documentary a couple of weeks back about Stephen King’s works on screen. King on Screen, it was called (actually, it’s not new, it’s from 2022). They interviewed many interesting people. One of them—I don’t remember who—made a comment about how King had written The Shining when he was still drinking, but he had written the screenplay for the 1997 adaptation when he was dry, and how there might have been a difference in passion. I totally understand that, and it’s part of what I’ve struggled with as I’m working on healing from years of narcissistic abuse and childhood trauma: how much of this pain do I want to give up, after all?

Sometimes, being bad is good. Being bad is what feeds us as writers. It’s not so much that this is what I think or believe, it’s what I know. I look back over my career, look at each short story—each is a treasure to me, because it’s not about ‘I churned out a story to get it published’—each of my short stories, from the time I started writing them when I was five, each is a snapshot of something that was happening in my life at the time. Or each is a reflection of a hope, a dream, a desire; an homage to a person, place, or thing I loved; a beloved memory, twisted and melded into something readable. No one wants to read a Nin-style journal entry of every waking thought I had when I was at a New Year’s Day Fondue Dip or Beatnik Party in the year 2000. No one wants to hear about how many times I was drunk and doing stupid things. But those thoughts, those wants, those desires—they can be articulated and pressed into a form that is both entertaining and speaks to others. I’m sure I’m not the only person who has thought about her own death, or the moment my lust for life will dissipate, or even that youthful dream of the perfect guy is out there for me. But once you get happy—like Alanis did, I suppose—something in that passionate spark goes away. I agree with what was said about The Shining. I think we can see the difference. I mean, I look at my own canon and I can tell you which ones I wrote because somebody asked me to and I felt no pain—and which ones were carved out of the tender meat of my broken heart. And yet, you can’t get TOO sad or you don’t write, either. Too much sad, too much in your head, too much anxiety—that doesn’t work any more than trying to write on your wedding day, if you were deliriously happy. Both states paralyze you. The sweet spot is in the middle. When that anxiety and unrest and lack of peace is just a burgeoning buzz underneath your day. One that occasionally breaks through with a flashback, and you stop and push it away with a few EMDR moves (like those cat wall clocks with the big eyes that go back and forth) just so you can get motivated enough to clean the toilet or take the trash out to the can.

I have too much on my plate, as I do every day. What I should do first is send out the reminders to everyone we’ve published in 34 Orchard that we have a write-in tonight, The Parlor Write-in at 34 Orchard (if you don’t know what a write-in is, it’s when writers get together—either in person somewhere or, since the pandemic, virtually—and just sit in silence and write; at the conclusion, sometimes there’s chatting or sharing). It seems silly, but it’s about making an excuse to get your butt in a chair. So many of us have lives that interfere constantly. Anyway, the reason I haven’t sent out that reminder yet is because I have to go through and cull the email list for doubles, and also, some of our international folks have already let me know the timing isn’t convenient for them (I honestly did my best, but when you’ve got writers from literally all over the globe, it’s impossible to make it work for everyone across twenty-four time zones). That mini-project just seems so overwhelming. I haven’t even done my homework for Donald Maass’ class yet and that class is Tuesday (well, I started, but I’ve yet to finish).

I wanted to hang out in bed and drink my coffee and lounge a little longer; enjoy the cozy warm. Really savor it, because one day, I will miss it. My husband Nathan brought me coffee in bed.

So I’ve just finished re-watching 2016’s Mascots on Netflix—I’ve been on a Christopher Guest kick since TCM showed Waiting for Guffman (a fave of mine since it reminds me of all my days in community theater) and Best in Show. Then I’m going to read more in The Shining, and THEN, maybe, I’ll start that new short story.