Hello friends and strangers, family, and those who don’t know how they got here. It’s been a while! For some, I realize it hasn’t — you just found me. But for others, you might have forgotten this blog existed. I sure did.

So, welcome back! Or, welcome!

I’m so excited to be back here, regurgitating my thoughts and engaging with the void of the internet via this little website. I return on the wings of glory and good news, for I bring with me an announcement: I’m publishing a book this fall!

WHAAAT?

You heard me. I will be self-publishing a dark fantasy novel called DESTROYER. It’s the first in a duology. No, it is not affiliated with the identically named brunch joint in Culver City, CA (although I wish it was). YES, it is romantic. As if I’d write a book without romance!

Relatedly, I do need to point out one very important fact — this is the very first book I’ve written that contains spice. Yes… that means none of my family members or people who know me in real life are allowed to read it. I don’t make the rules.

While I’ll be kicking off DESTROYER’s marketing madness pretty soon here, including its cover (which you’ll fucking love), release date, and more, I would love to share a few things about the book with you.

DESTROYER is the story of two people who come together seemingly by chance, but who have more in common than they can possibly understand. It’s about a woman looking for meaning in a chaotic world, a place in a life that won’t accept her exactly as she is. (She’s academic, she’s sharp, she’s anxiety-ridden, and she just wants the scientific world to take her seriously, damn it!) It’s about the man who shakes up her world in the most unexpected ways. It’s about an artifact that could destroy the world. It’s not about good and evil, but that grey space in between. It’s a story about fate, love, religion, magic… and kissing.

I hope you like it.

I’m really enjoying going through my old word documents and trying to figure out where I was going with these never-finished stories. I have a lot of old outlines saved, which are typically around 5k words long and describe every major plot beat in a novel I never wrote. But some of these old files exist without an outline, totally context-free, and it’s fun trying to remember where the ideas came from, and where they were going.

This beginning, “Olivie at Home,” is very short, and I’m not even sure it was supposed to be the beginning of anything; sometimes I just write little character vignettes to get a handle on a protagonist. It apparently takes place in the world of my YA sci-fi book (which may never be published but so it goes), but I have no idea I was aiming for beyond that. A spin-off? A prequel? A totally separate adventure? I guess we’ll never know.

Continue reading “Beginnings 2: Olivie at Home”

I’ve decided to do a little series here on my personal blog, just for fun and for my own nostalgic tendencies, called Beginnings. In this series, I will post the very beginnings of books or stories that I never finished. It gives me a reason to go back and read old work, and maybe it’ll inspire me along the way.

Ultimately, I just want to put my work out there and write and revel in it, with no agenda, no money involved, no plan to finish a full book if I don’t need or want to. Just to dick around with fiction online, like back in the old days of FanFic Dot Net. You know what I mean.

Here’s the first installment. I have honestly zero recollection of writing this, but I did spend a few years in a hockey-obsessed haze, so it’s anyone’s guess what kind of nonsense I was spewing during that fugue state.

Enjoy!

Continue reading “Beginnings 1: Back On The Ice”

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I spent a few hours this morning putting on makeup, doing my hair, and transforming a tiny corner of our apartment into a makeshift studio. I took dozens of photos with the self-timer, picked my favorites, and put another couple hours of work into editing. I absolutely loved how every one of my shots turned out. There were too many to choose from, too many flattering angles, too many shots where I actually had tits (and they were good tits). I felt so validated! So confident and hot and talented, all rolled into one.

I showed my boyfriend, and he was enthusiastic as always — “great job, babe!” he said. “You look hot.” Yes! I did! I rode that high all the way to social media, where I posted my favorites of the bunch.

Time passed. I ate lunch. Walked the dog.

And gradually, insidiously, the longer the photos were online, the more embarrassed I began to feel. God, I thought. These aren’t doing great numbers. People probably think I’m so full of myself. They’re probably muting or unfollowing. I’m wearing a bra in these pics, so they must think I’m an exhibitionist or a slut, and not in a good way. They must think I’m just trying to get attention from straight men.

Eventually, because I have clinical anxiety (like everyone else on the planet), I began to wonder whether even my friends thought I was gross, a narcissist, too into myself.

Was I? Am I? Is this hobby actually self-indulgent to the point of toxicity? Am I demeaning myself? Embarrassing myself?

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But in the way these things usually happen, I talked to a friend about it and she immediately halted my anxiety spiral in its tracks. “creating something beautiful with self portraiture is NOT narcissism it’s art and self-celebration!” she said. “I think millennials are trained to feel like any feeling other than hating yourself is narcissism.” And whether that’s true for all Millennials, I’m not sure… but it’s largely true for women.

And then I read a tweet by Bolu Babalola that hit at exactly the right moment:

I think all women should be thoroughly in love with themselves

– @BeeBabs

She is right! What am I doing? Why am I sitting here assuming everyone hates me because I had fun taking some silly little self portraits? Because I felt hot, because I documented it, because I shared and celebrated it?

Pffff. Of course nobody hates me.

And if they do, if someone out there dislikes me for any reason — especially if it’s because I like posting hot pics of myself — then I actually don’t care. My friends love me, my boyfriend loves me, and most importantly, I love me.

I deserve to feel sexy and post about it online! We all do!

I have the urge to write, but nothing seems to be coming out the way I want it to. So I’m writing here! Should I be working on this romantic comedy book I’m writing instead? Probably. Or should I be working on a new fantasy novel? Also, probably.

But let’s think of this blog as a little warm-up, a stretch before the real workout. Because it’s been weeks since I last wrote anything, and I need to get back in the groove.

Last time I wrote, I was on vacation a few weeks ago. And I knew that when I went back to work after that two weeks, I’d be quitting my job. I didn’t know exactly when, but I had already — I realize now — made the decision. I ended up putting in my notice the day I returned from vacation, and now I’m finally free. This is the first full week of my unemployment era! I can’t begin to express how it feels to be done with a job that was running me into the ground (both physically and mentally), especially since I haven’t really begun to process it yet.

As I was telling Adam last night, I think the next few weeks are going to be rough. The transition from working full-time to being unemployed won’t be easy or seamless. My emotions are all over the place. One minute I’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, knowing I don’t have a toxic job to go back to, knowing I can spend my free time writing, drawing, and doing whatever creative work I want. And then the next minute I’ll remember my ongoing workers’ comp case, or my neck pain will act up, and I’ll be crushed with overwhelming anxiety, fear of the unknown, fear that I’m going to fuck up this opportunity somehow.

Because it is an opportunity. My partner is supporting me while I take time to heal, write, rest, and think about what I want to do next. I mean, that’s a seriously fucking lucky situation. Not many people ever find themselves in a position to take time between jobs, to pursue a true passion, all without the specter of unpaid rent hanging over them. So with the knowledge that I’m extremely blessed comes the worry that I’ll somehow squander this time, waste it, when I could do so much with it.

See, this is what I mean! Typical Meg! I’m getting anxiety about everything that passes through my brain. Only I could manage to take a wonderful gift and turn it into something to worry about.

I think I might get back into bullet journaling. I want to organize my life, build a routine that I can get used to, because this bitch loves structure.

In the meantime, I am trying to remember that it’s okay to rest. It’s okay to take a little time to collect myself. I don’t need to dive immediately into the hustle, because the hustle is what broke me.

If you’re like me, you probably need a similar reminder. Let’s try to be kinder to ourselves, as hard as it is.

I turn 35 tomorrow. As a sort of pre-celebration, I’m spending today feeling deeply sorry for myself about my career and the state of my emotional health.

It’s nothing new that I long to write and publish novels for a living. It’s not unique or interesting, either, and I know that. Tons of people want that career. But for whatever reason the want has been eating at me lately. Just gnawing at my sense of inner peace with its serrated nasty little teeth:

Why are you still working a day job that you hate, Meg?

Why haven’t you written another book since you finished the last one, Meg?

If you want it that badly, shouldn’t you work harder, Meg?

Look, I get it, self. I’m not where I wanted to be at 35. I’ve never had a five year goal, or any type of career goal. There’s just been this one thing that I love more than most other things, this one thing I want to spend most of my time doing, this one thing that gives me so much joy and makes me feel so clearly like myself — and that’s writing. I just thought… by this time in life, maybe I’d have my shit together and sell a book. Maybe I’d have enough savings that I could quit my job and see if I can make it as an author. You know?

Never mind that these are objectively naive and stupid thoughts. The odds of being able to support myself writing books are extremely low, even if I work my ass off. And I need health insurance, for one. And I have a shopping addiction, for two.

It’s not a realistic dream.

And everyone has a dream that probably won’t be realized, right? Everyone is raging against capitalism in a state of ongoing misery. People are walking out of jobs that underpay, they’re unionizing, they’re disillusioned and overworked and treated like cogs in a shit machine. So why should my feeble dreams of freeing myself from that chokehold be any more meaningful than anyone else’s? And so I wonder, why even try? I’m lucky to have the job that I do. I’m lucky in so many ways. It would be stupid to give it up, and even stupider to think I could.

I just feel physically tormented and I don’t know how to make it stop. I feel sick inside, I feel like destroying something, I feel so trapped and stuck and so so desperate, desperate to have the time and the energy and the money to spend my days writing. And I feel like I’m not doing enough, like maybe I don’t want it enough, like I don’t deserve it enough.

Every time I begin to convince myself I can do it, that I can buck the system and do something new and make money on my own terms, doing what I love, I backpedal and realize it’s unrealistic. And then I beat myself up for not being able to make it happen anyway, while working 40 hours a week and maintaining a social life and a relationship and everything else.

I need to keep writing, I need to keep writing, I need to keep writing.

I’m just so tired. Bone deep exhausted.

And I feel so helpless and hopeless and stuck. I’m beating my head against a wall and I can’t find the way through. I don’t know how long I can do this until my skull cracks.

My neck has been feeling steadily better, which is amazing. But I had expected that when it happened, I’d be so overcome with gratitude and joie de vivre that I’d be in some kind of manic bliss mode for at least a little while. Not the case! Instead I feel like… okay, I feel physically better, so what now?

I very often get these fits of mild depression and feeling stuck, or unsatisfied/bored/frustrated with where I’m at in life despite nothing being wrong. I don’t know whether it’s a combination of leftover pandemic fatigue, work exhaustion, or what. I’ve been writing bits of fiction pretty regularly, but it’s all bad and none of it interests me. I could force myself to write, but I think I just don’t have the right idea yet.

So in the meantime I feel stagnant, like I need to do something to move my life forward, but I just don’t know what.

Next week Adam and I are taking a staycation and being tourists in our own city, which will be so much fun. It’s technically to celebrate my birthday, but we also desperately need a vacation. I’m hoping it’ll lift my spirits, and in the meantime it gives me something to look forward to.

Ultimately I’m just so tired of these little depression episodes that plague me no matter where I am in life. They’re so mild — I’m totally functional, just vaguely bored and distant from everything that usually interests me — but they cast a pall over everything. Do I need a new book to read? I can’t focus on the one I’m reading now. Do I need a new writing project? No idea what kind of story will interest me. Do I need to get a new job? Not unless it’s a full-time novel writing gig (in my literal dreams). I dunno man, I’m stuck and it’s a mystery and I feel low.

These posts have been pretty bleak lately, huh! I’m tired of it, and I imagine anyone reading this is tired of it too. I wish it was the weekend, aka the only time I feel like myself anymore.

I’ve been doing a series on tiktok (encouraged by my mom, who is doing something similar) where I read from my high school livejournal. It’s not really supposed to garner views or follows, although that would be fun. Instead, it’s something I can do and look forward to every day, a nostalgic look at my teenage self.

While reading these first posts in my LJ, it’s really interesting to see how much I’ve changed; but even more interesting to me is the ways I’ve stayed the same. For one, I still write all the time, whether it’s in a journal or twitter or an unseen manuscript in the making. I’m so proud of myself for sticking with writing, for not giving up on or setting aside one of the core parts of who I am. I think 16-year-old me would be so proud of me, and so happy to see that I’m actually finishing books for once. It’s been over 20 years in the making.

Teen Meg was also very sensitive, and very prone to escapism. The real world has never been interesting to me, and I’d much rather spend time in my own head, in a story, or swept up in a song. I’m far more grounded now than I was as a teenager, but not so much that I read those entries from 2002 and feel a massive disconnect. I see myself in that teen, and I have a lot of love for her.

It’s easy to make fun of my past self, to laugh at how ridiculous I was and how everything seemed like the end of the world. But I also look back at that girl with a lot of empathy. I wish I could go back in time and give myself a hug and tell teen Meg it will all be okay, that the things keeping me up at night didn’t matter, that they would all pass just like everything else. I wish I could myself “you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

That teenage nerd, the girl who obsessed over Liberty’s Kids and thought a D in chemistry was the end of the world… she made me who I am, and I actually really like that person.

The neck saga continues. I was feeling marginally better each day this week, but today has been a little bit of a backslide. I’m chalking it up to “healing isn’t linear” or whatever inspirational quote I always see on instagram, but it’s still discouraging to feel like shit again. This is going to be a long process and I’m not excited about having symptoms for another few weeks.

The mornings start out fine — I don’t wake up with a migraine anymore, which is great. But then as the day wears on, my neck starts to feel stiffer, and then comes the migraine/nausea combo. I wish I could stay positive, but as soon as the pain returns I spiral into a horrible mood and everything becomes a million times more difficult and upsetting. Work feels nearly impossible when I’m feeling like this.

I keep thinking of all these fun things Adam and I could do over the weekend, but it’s all dependent on whether I’m physically able. The thought of spending another weekend inside in bed watching TV is making me feel so low, and I’m so tired of crying.

I can’t really express how mentally draining this whole thing has been without sounding pathetic. Hoping this pain will continue to gradually ease, and that I’ll be back to normal functionality soon.

This is a very depressing blog post, but whatever. I needed to vent and I like being open online — there’s a satisfaction that comes with being known, but not having to interact with anyone on an individual level. Also my mom reads this, so hi Mom.

We’ve all gone through it in the past year, across the board. And most of us have probably gained weight. I mean, literally what was left to us during the height of lockdown but to eat?

In fact, one of the bright spots in 2020 was Adam’s and my weekly Saturday date nights, ordering in tons of food from amazing restaurants and gorging until we felt sick. And throughout the week, suffering through working from home and feeling burnt out and scared, what else could we do but snack? Food is nourishing and comforting and I don’t have a single regret about what I’ve eaten or not eaten over the past year.

But I still hate that I’ve gained weight. Don’t get me wrong — I know I’m skinny. I was skinny in 2019, and I’m skinny in 2021. I’ll never act like I’m the kind of person the body positivity movement is meant to help or lift up, and I know I’m privileged in lots of ways. That said, we all know that everyone suffers from self-esteem issues, body issues, whatever those may be. And I constantly struggle with loving my body.

One way I’ve managed to find love for myself and the way I look, even when I can’t feel it at first, is to take photos of myself. It sounds counter-intuitive, but being able to look at my body through a lens, to see it as maybe others see it, to pose myself in ways that feel sexy or fun and flattering, to have control over the way it is presented, gives me a sense of control.

It also shows me that the body I see in my head isn’t the same as the body that shows up in photographs. It’s a much more beautiful body than what I imagine. My butt is hot. My cellulite is hot. I’m hot, shockingly enough.

And whenever I forget that, I look at portraits I’ve taken and remind myself that I have been, I am, and I will continue to be hot or cute or sexy.

So today, when I felt bad about my butt, about the weight I’ve gained and the changes in my body, I took photos to highlight them. Look at my butt! It is a great butt. Remember that, Meg.