Remember magic (or, holy freaking wow)

I should absolutely be sleeping right now -- or at least TRYING to sleep -- but no. I ramble more when I'm super-extra tired like this. I apologize in advance.

So, I think it's safe to say that Saturday through Monday were pretty horrible. In fact, I think it's safe to say those three days were the worst since Mom died. And, since Monday, it's been getting to me. I kept thinking about how I seem to always have to relearn every lesson a dozen times. For example:

1. Don't forget to be awesome
   
2. Keep working on love
   
3. Do not give up on the things you want before you even try to get them
4. Do not let fear stand in the way of happiness
5. Do not leave so many things unsaid
6. Take the time to tell people what they mean to you, to make sure they know
7. Do NOT -- UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES -- like your life out loud

And the crappy stuff of those three days has made it hard to focus on the amazingly good things that have happened recently -- an agent showing at least preliminary interest in my book, incredible support from my two AMAZING writing partners -- and, oh yeah, getting to see Neil Gaiman.

I. Love. Neil Gaiman.

He's my favorite writer. I have a postcard from him (which he sent in response to a letter I sent blaming him for being semi-stalked by a very creepy guy at a roller derby fundraiser three years ago) that I keep matted and framed on the wall by my computer. (This probably makes ME sound like a semi-stalker, but really, I just think anything looks better matted and framed.)

Weeks ago, my friend Kate got tickets for us to see Neil, and even as we drove to New Hampshire tonight to get to the event, I was saying that it made me sad that I wasn't more excited, that all the yucky stuff of the last week or so was killing my joyful anticipation of seeing Neil Gaiman IN PERSON.

I call the people who have participated in the Misadventures with Box o'Ma my partners in awesome, because it's way better than a partner in crime (and, hey, we don't break any laws with Box o'Ma) and Kate has been my super-duper partner in awesome, having been on more misadventures than anyone. Our first misadventure together was when we took Box o'Ma to meet John Green last year. And so, it seemed only appropriate to bring Box o'Ma to see Neil Gaiman, too. (Plus, I've been wanting to hit every New England state and now all that's left is Rhode Island -- which should be done July 4 -- and Vermont.)

We got to Portsmouth and got a weensy bit lost in the rain. (Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear the one semi-padded bra I own today so as to keep my white t-shirt from going completely see-through. Another lesson relearned for the zillionth time: Always check the weather forecast before embarking on an adventure. Sheesh.) It was a fancy little theater* (the kind that should probably be spelled the British way -- especially since we were there to see a British man speak -- but I like the American way better).

I got my New Hampshire misadventure picture, the band played, the lights dimmed, and out walked Neil Gaiman. He was funny (well, duh) and engaging. He read three excerpts from American Gods, which was published 10 years ago last week. Then he answered questions.

During the Q&A, he talked about American Gods and gods in general and folktales. He talked about how stories matter and how people matter. He talked about Jack stories in England and how they migrated into Appalachia with settlers who passed down the same stories, but stripped them of their magic. He said it was remarkable that the same stories were still being told in both places and that they were still good, funny, smart stories, but that the Americanized ones lacked magic. He said Americans are practical.

It's funny, because I often say that "I'm nothing if not practical." But it made me sad to think that those stories lost their magic here. Many people have described me as having a significant amount of childlike wonder. Several people have gone so far as to say that my sense of wonder is one of my most endearing qualities. (I like to think so....) I believe in magic.

Toward the end of the Q&A, the radio hostess that was interviewing Neil made a point of saying that one of the big themes in American Gods is that if you believe in something hard enough, it becomes real.

And I think this is why Neil is my favorite writer: the magic, the belief, the believing. I love that those things exist in his stories and that they make me feel like anything is possible and that there are amazing things to discover in this world.

Sitting there, I remembered these very short folktales a friend of mine gave me to read recently, and how barely six pages of words had left this deep impression on me for the same reason: the magic, the belief, the believing -- the possibility.

Which makes me hope.

I had three really miserable days scrunched together. I am worn out and tired and stressed out and still reeling from it all. And yet, I also feel this renewed sense of hope after spending just under two hours in a room listening to my favorite writer talk about lost deities and the writing process and submarines...and magic.

Never forget the magic.

(Please note, however, that this is NOT me liking my life. My life and I are still on very tumultuous terms. I just feel a bit better is all.)




*The cherubs were a bit creepy, though.

Death = cleaning

…at least somewhere in my psyche, at least recently.

I’m trying to remember if this has always been true. I don’t think I went crazy cleaning when any of my grandparents died or when I had to have my almost 19-year-old cat, Joy, put to sleep.

It’s hard to believe in 10 days it will be seven years since that day that Eli and Mary accompanied me to the vet to say goodbye to Joy, mere days before the graduation residency for my MFA.

Almost a year after that, my good friend Emily had an agent interested in her book (which wasn’t finished). She sent me pages to read/edit while she was writing it. Just as I was wrapping up my edits, my guinea pig, Izzy, died.

I’m thinking of Joy and Izzy, because they have company in that place where pets go when they die. This morning, the incredibly sweet (if sometimes a bit annoying) Mazzy Star joined them. She was 16 and a half, and even though I know that’s a pretty good, long life for a cat (half my own life), it still seems very short.

It’s also odd that Mazzy should die now, when I’m trying to revise the first five chapters of my book to send to an agent who has shown interest. (I’m starting to worry that any time I’m involved in some major writing-related thing one of my pets is going to die. I realize it’s just oddly coincidental, but still.*)

I don’t want to associate writing and death, so instead I’ll associate death and cleaning. The morning my mother died, when we were waiting for the father of a high school classmate of mine to come take her body away (this isn't some weird thing; he’s the director of a local funeral home), I couldn’t sit still. I mopped the floors. I straightened up the tray on Mom’s hospital bed and the basket with her meds and the coffee table, and I can’t remember what else. I know I looked at my sisters at one point and commented that I was probably driving them both crazy, but I needed to DO SOMETHING and cleaning seemed like a good idea.

And that’s how I spent most of today, too. I buried Mazzy and mumbled a few words of love and goodbye, then I started cleaning. Consolidating cat bowls and litterboxes, washing dishes, cleaning the guinea pigs’ cage, sweeping the mud room and stairs and storage area (which I haven’t done since I moved into this apartment last June).

I should be working on those chapter revisions – I still have two more to send to my writing partners to review before I’m ready to send them to the agent – but I can’t concentrate. I keep hearing Mazzy’s little purry whine. I keep looking for her underfoot. I keep thinking that I should have brought her to the vet late last week when she wasn’t eating or drinking very much, that maybe it would’ve made a difference….

I remember talking to my mom right after Joy died, telling her how I would swear I still saw flashes of her in the corner of my eye for a couple of weeks. She said that used to happen to her, too.

I’m thinking of Joy and Izzy and Mazzy and Mom. I’m thinking that it never gets easier – not when you’re as prepared as you can be, not when you’ve been through it before, never.

* It's also bizarre that Mazzy seemed relatively well until I made the mistake of expressing something close to bliss when the agent said she was interested in my book -- this only supports my hypothesis that I am not allowed to like my life out loud. When I do, it breaks. From here on out, I think I need to internalize the expression of happiness, just to be safe. As Douglas Coupland says in Hey, Nostradamus!

I sound maudlin here. I don't want that. I'm not striving for effect, and I'm not drunk. But to spit things out in a list like this is humbling. Lists only spell out the things that can be taken away from us by moths and rust and thieves. If something is valuable, don't put it in a list. Don't even say the words.

Well, it's been an interesting day

Two funny things happened today:

I've been working on this project at work where I've had to catalog all the web pages associated with our web site (it's, like, 100,000 pages) and upload these massive spreadsheets to our consultants' online workspace. I've primarily been working with this one guy, but only through messages posted to this workspace (usually something like, " I've uploaded the pages associated with this division; I’m still waiting on X program" or " Will you have all the documents finished this week?" Mostly, they've been even briefer than that.)

So, today, I get this notification of a new message from my primary contact:

Hey,

What's your phone number? I'll give you a quick call today at some point.

(I ask girls this a lot)

Thanks

I've never met this guy, never spoken to him. I find this VERY weird and a bit unprofessional and creepy. I'm telling my cubicle neighbor, Amy (who's agreeing with me), when my phone rings. It's him.

And HE HAS A BRITISH ACCENT.

And suddenly, I realize that I’m willing to overlook a bit of creepiness and unprofessionalism for a good accent.

Oh, my.

Later, I was watching John Green’s latest Vlogbrothers video, titled “Then I Took Off My Bra.” I liked the video (and by that I mean I clicked the little “like” icon), which automatically tweeted: “I liked a @YouTube video http://youtu.be/RL96ckeyfVo?a Then I Took Off My Bra.”

I didn’t even think about the fact that I’d linked my YouTube and Twitter accounts and the format of these automatic tweets and the title of the Vlog, until Ruth of All Evil pointed it out.

(For the record: I did NOT take off my bra.)

T G I F

30 years of HIV

So, tomorrow marks the 30th anniversary of the first MMWR (CDC's weekly report on diseases and wacky medical things) to mention what would become known as HIV.

As I mentioned at World AIDS Day, I've spent the last third of my life working in HIV services -- as an office assistant, file clerk, fundraiser, HR manager, grant writer, program evaluator, database manager, quality improvement specialist, compliance officer, and general data wonk. And even though I "don't do people stuff" I have still met so many incredible people who left this world way earlier than they should have.

But I've also met some incredible people who are still here, and who choose to spend the vast majority of their waking hours making very little money and working within rigid bureaucratic guidelines in an effort to improve people's lives -- to keep people from contracting HIV in the first place and to help those who have contracted it live the longest, healthiest life possible. (This is where I nod vigorously toward the gang at 9th Floor South -- the most irreverent, funny, dedicated, compassionate, and hungry [yes, I mean in terms of actual food, not the metaphorical sense] people I've had the privilege to call co-workers.)

I read an article this week about the American man who seems to have been cured of HIV through some very expensive, risky procedures performed in Germany (i.e. not a cure that would be feasible to replicate for the millions of people living with HIV worldwide) that indicated that "on the 30th birthday of HIV, the global scientific community is setting out with renewed vigor to try to kill it."

I hope this is true. We've come a long way in the last 30 years, no question, but it's not enough. According to UNAIDS, 65 million people worldwide have become infected with HIV in the last 30 years and 30 million have died of AIDS. Every hour, 292 people are infected somewhere in the world – that's nearly 5 people every minute.

In the US, there are more than 1 million people living with HIV. Every nine and a half minutes someone is infected. Close to half -- about 40% -- of people aren’t diagnosed until late in their infection, when they are sicker and have had the chance to unknowingly transmit the virus to others.

It's worth taking a minute to stop and think about the people who aren't here anymore, the people who are living with this disease and won't be as lucky as that man who found a cure in Berlin, the people who have been infected but don't know it and won't know it for many years, the people who still engage in risky behaviors, and the ones who somehow don't know their behaviors put them at risk.

Tick

I had to search through several scrap books to find this. It's from the liner notes to Marry Me Jane's second album, Tick, and it just seemed especially relevant right now:

so this strange boy came to dinner and ruined my appetite as he explained another: we were talking about songs and he said that we all did the same stuff, but that the details were what mattered – what you were doing when you remembered your old toy fire engine, what the sky tasted like when you fell in love with the idiot in the 10^th grade. i took it to mean that not everybody is lucky enough to be able to sob, and even fewer have the ability to laugh at the wealth of liquid pouring out of their faces. know what i mean? so if every little minute on this earth really counts, don’t you wanna say hello to your mailman/woman every now and then? talk to someone who repulses you, just to see what it feels like? run around naked in the rain…at least once?

the same way a pinball can appear to take forever deciding which lane to roll down, i get so sick of watching the hours flip by, being unsure. well here’s our little moment in 40 whatever minutes. if you love it, sleep with it under your pillow, give it a birthday cake and dress it up for dinner. if you don’t, actively despise it, figure out how to smash it into bits or give it to your enemies for christmas. tilt the machine. just do one true thing today and don’t miss a bloody second…tick.

Dear Ma

It’s nineteen months today, and it’s also Mother’s Day. Seemed like time to write you another letter.

The last letter I wrote you when you were alive, I told you that we’d be okay. It’s more than a year and a half since you died, and we are. We’re not fabulous millionaires living out our dreams, but we’re getting by.

I also said I’d miss you. And I do. Every single day. It’s funny what does it – sometimes it’ll be the way I look at a picture, or if I hear a phone ring and remember how you called almost every day, or if Emmett decides to be especially snuggly, or someone says something you used to say. (Or, when I was in Chicago and told Em I’d “wandered all over Hell and gone” while I was lost and she’d never heard that phrase and so I wondered for days if you’d just made it up. You didn’t. It’s in the Urban Dictionary.)

It’s interesting to watch how people on the periphery of someone else’s grief handle it, like the friends who completely withdrew from me because they didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to say the wrong things, and so they said nothing at all. The ones who said, “Call me if you need anything,” even though they knew I would never make that call (that I could barely remember how to operate a telephone). And now, a year and a half later, most people have forgotten or think that the grieving part is over, or whatever.

Several days ago, I was talking to my cubicle neighbor at work. I was debating about signing up for this ref clinic in Boston that falls on your birthday. I wasn’t sure I should do it, because I wasn’t sure how I’d be. This co-worker’s father died several years ago and she said his birthday is still hard for her. But, she said, it’s the leading up that’s the hardest. (This makes sense – my first birthday without you, your birthday last year, the anniversary of your death – all of these were easier than the days leading up to them, when I thought the day itself might kill me or make me lose my mind completely.) And so, I decided to do it. The ref clinic, I mean -- not losing my mind completely; that would be bad. (Although I am still nervous that I might be an edgy nervous wreck for the weekend….)

Around the same time of that conversation, this co-worker asked about today – if I was doing anything, if I thought I’d be okay. I told her I would probably just go to the movies, and so now we’re going together – to see if Hollywood has destroyed Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants, one of the best books I read last year (and I read a lot of really good books last year).

But the most interesting thing about watching people on the periphery of another’s grief is the surprises.

Yesterday, I woke up to this fabulous text from Rehab:

S [that’s her daughter] asking about aliens and space ships this a.m. and she says, “Well, maybe Graceless will go on one and tell me if there are really aliens or not.” She went on to say, “I like Graceless. I miss her.” We miss you!

It wasn’t specifically about Mother’s Day or you, but it was from a mother and daughter and it was sweet and it made me feel loved, which is the best way to start any day, really.

I went skating outside for the first time this season (YAY!!!!!) and came home to find an email from this smart, funny guy I barely know. He concluded the email, “Good luck tomorrow.”

To which I replied:

I'm assuming you're wishing me luck tomorrow because it's Mother's Day, and if so, you're the only person besides a co-worker who even thought to acknowledge in any way that tomorrow is going to be very hard. Which means a lot. Like, really, you have no idea how much. (Enough that I'm writing really terribly constructed sentences.)

And if that's not what you meant, then I have no idea why you were wishing me luck tomorrow. But thanks.

And then, hours later, because I couldn’t stand not knowing for sure and because I know he doesn’t check his email all that often, I sent him a text:

Ok – have to ask – “good luck tomorrow” was about it being mother’s day?

He replied that it was, and then apologized about not saying it better and if he “caused anything other than sending well wishes.” So I wrote back that it was just very kind and that he’s made of awesome (because he is).

And then this morning, I checked my email first thing (because that’s what I always do) and there was a Facebook notification that a friend of mine who I haven’t laid eyes on in years despite the fact that she only lives in Portland had posted on my wall that she was thinking of me today.

And it may seem like these gestures are small, but really, they are huge. They are bigger than me. They are the things that have gotten me through the last nineteen months and will get me through the rest of my life motherless.

Because, Ma, I know we didn’t always get along. I know that you DROVE ME CRAZY a lot of the time. (And I’m sure I did the same to you.) But there’s this giant, sucking black hole in my life where you used to be. When I have a bad day, I can’t call you and just rant about my job or derby or some idiot at the grocery store or the insurance industry or whatever. When I come home, I can’t hug you or laugh about how you’ll only say, “I love you,” if I’m getting on a plane. (And every time I board a plane, I think about that, and it makes my throat close up for a few seconds.)

But, I’m okay.

There are people in my life who are watching out for me. Sometimes, I wonder if you’re watching with them. Sometimes I’m sure you are.

I’m amazed at my friends who are mothers – they are brave and they are fierce and they are smart and they are creative and, above all, they are loving. They are incredible and I’m glad they are raising people who will grow up to be incredible. I’m glad they’re helping to make my world a better place.

And so, this year, I’m not just thinking about the black hole in my life. I’m thinking about them, too. I’m thinking about how they light up the darkness and how their children will do the same.

And it makes it a little easier.

It makes me feel less alone.

I still miss you. Every day. …But I’m okay.

I should be writing something real right now

– that is, I should either be finishing the edits on my completed novel or writing the second chapter of my new one. I should be, and I think I might actually get some real writing done tonight, but first I’m going to warm up here.

(I know, I know. I don’t write any blogs for two months and then suddenly I write two in two days! It’s practically scandalous. Or just unpredictable. One of those, for sure.)

Have I mentioned how Twitter has changed my life in profound and beautiful ways?

No, really. I’m serious.

If not for Twitter:

• I would not have done a trapeze lesson on my 31^st birthday
• I would not have the letters DFTBA tattooed on my right wrist; I probably wouldn’t even know the acronym or anything about Nerdfighteria
  
• I would not know about the Beckoning of Lovely
• I would not know (in no particular order): The Mountain Goats, Amanda Palmer, Maureen Johnson, David Levithan, Scott Westerfeld, The Bloggess, or Libba Bray

(I would be a significantly less entertained and less enlightened human being without those things, by the way. They've all been a crucial part of working on love.)

And here’s why Libba Bray is so important to me TODAY:

This is the magic/curse of writing: That in crafting your fiction, you leave yourself open to sudden moments of unguarded truth, and you have to be willing to tolerate that again and again. You have to keep raising your sword and charging, even knowing you could retreat scorched and missing a limb. You have to keep doing it even when you don’t want to. Especially when you don’t want to.

(And, speaking of The Mountain Goats, there was also this recent amazing quote by John Darnielle: “Part of it is recognizing that while writing is a mystical process, it's also work. If you show up to work five days in a row, nobody's going to pat you on the back—everyone does that. Well, do that with your writing. Just show up. Be there for it. When you get an idea, write it down somewhere and then be a steward of that idea.”)

When the writing is good, it feels like I’m just channeling something that comes from somewhere else. And I feel like this is what I was born to do. When it’s not good, I totally go to the dark “I suck” place and I want to hide hide hide and never come out. Or, at least, never face my computer or a pen ever again. EVER.

But, Libba and John are both right. And brilliant. And I wish that I could shrink them down into pocket size and carry them around with me to repeat these words whenever I start to doubt myself or give myself too long of a break from the writing. The truth is, I’m never really happy or fulfilled when I’ve let the writing go for a while. Sometimes it’s about survival. Sometimes I’m distracted enough to not notice the missing pieces of my soul. But, whenever I let it go too long, there’s this low, constant nagging that pulls at me. And who wants to live like that?

I saw Libba’s blog today and I immediately emailed some writer friends. I told them, “This leads me to think that people who are wired to write are also wired to think they suck and to get completely overwhelmed with the possibility of writing and to shut down. But also? I think we're wired TO PERSIST.”

Okay, diving back in…. Think happy thoughts for me.

"We are made to persist. That's how we find out who we are."

- Tobias Wolff, In Pharaoh's Army

I’ve been in a terrible mood for the last couple of days. I’m stressed out in about every way I can imagine and it makes me feel totally shutdown and overwhelmed. (Like, “Gee, wouldn’t it be nice to sit in a room and make origami butterflies all day?” overwhelmed.)

Part of it is that I am obsessively checking my email, awaiting a response (even a negative one) from my first-choice agent. I sent a query (including synopsis and prologue) five weeks ago today. An exclusive query. I should have heard back within four weeks, according to this agency’s website. And, they invite people to inquire if they have not heard within the timeframe. Still, I don’t want to be annoying and so I’m going to give it until Monday before I check in again. (I’ve already got my second choice lined up if this one isn’t interested, so it’s not so much the fear of rejection that’s killing me. It’s the waiting. I hate waiting. I am not a patient girl.)

Earlier this month was the 18-monthiversary of Mom’s death. My shrink said that I wasn’t allowed to make any major life decisions for a year to a year and a half after Mom died, and I kind of get why now. At 18 months, I feel a lot different than I did even at one year. It’s like that quote from Dollhouse last year: “You never get over it. It just becomes part of you.” I’m certainly not over my mom’s death (or her illness or her permanent absence from my life), but being motherless is part of who I am now. It’s hard and it will always be hard, but it also just IS.

If it sounds like I’ve moved to some great enlightened place about all this, I haven’t. Last night, I posted the following status update on Facebook:

About nine kinds of overwhelmed right now and all I can think is, "I want my mommy." Which makes me really sad.

Several friends commented their commiseration. Sometimes, misery does love company, because it’s just NICE to know you aren’t alone. But, sometimes, it sucks to know that your friends are as sad as you.

My 16-and-a-half-year-old cat, Mazzy, is doing the thing she did starting last May through the fall where she cries and howls every couple of hours through the night. No particular reason that I can find. The white noise machine doesn’t drown her out. Closing the door doesn’t drown her out. Closing the door AND putting on the white noise machine doesn’t work. Yeah. It’s AWESOME.

In the wee hours of last night, she decided (after crying at me) that she wanted to climb up on the bed. (Yes, climb. She doesn’t jump like a normal cat.) Due to the craziness that is my luck, she hooked a claw into my cheek. (Go ahead and picture it and then laugh. An 8-pound black and white cat with one claw in my cheek, trying to climb up on the bed. Objectively, I can admit that the image must be pretty funny.) Thankfully, I wasn’t badly hurt and I didn’t get too much blood on the pillow case.

But, that’s the kind of couple days it’s been – just dreary weather and not enough sleep and anxiety about emails that haven’t arrived and tons going on at work and at home and not writing and and and and and.

Until I got home from work today.

I was surprised to find a greeting card in my mail. I opened it up, and my hand flew to my heart just as soon as I read the outside of the card: “My heart is grateful for you…”

The card was sent by Jackie (who has a track record for sending really amazing cards). It was a follow up to an email she sent me last week, thanking me for a CD I mailed her. It was a mix of music I’d listened to during my grieving process that I thought helped me. Her dad died shortly before Christmas and I wanted her to know I was thinking of her and I wanted the music to help bring her just some small measure of peace, if it could.

The inside message of the card is: “…and for all the many ways you make my world a better place.” Jackie replaced the word “my” with “the.”

And there’s the lesson once again: KEEP WORKING ON LOVE.

All I had to do was reach out and show the smallest bit of kindness to this person who means so much to me (Jackie is, unquestionably, one of my top five favorite people on the planet) and she reaches back. She shows me that no matter how overwhelmed I may feel, there are still incredible people in my life. Incredible people who appreciate me for who I am, as I am.

And why?

Because sometimes – just sometimes – I remember that lesson. I remember to tell people what I think of them. I remember to tell people that I think of them. I remember to show kindness and caring. I remember that love takes work, and I keep working at it.

"What's mine is mine and if I share it with you then it becomes less mine."

- Where the Day Takes You

I don't think it's been happening more lately, I've just been noticing it more. I'll be in the elevator at work or waiting in my shrink's office or at the checkout at the grocery store and someone will say, "I like your hat!" or "Wow, look at all your pins!" At practices, people notice my socks. At bouts, they notice my tutu.

Occasionally, people ask about them. Not so much my funny animal hats (unless "What IS that?" about the squirrel one) or my tutus. Occasionally, people ask if there's a reason I paired the two mismatched socks I'm wearing. More often, people ask about the pins on my winter coat. Lately, I've had people asking about the tattoos on my wrists.

I often say I'm an open book. And, there is precious little I hold back, especially if I'm asked a direct question. But I've been finding it hard to answer some of these inquiries lately. (I still answer, but I hesitate and I avoid the important details when I can.)

The thing is: I didn't get the tattoos on my wrists as a statement to the world. I got them for me. To remind me of precious, important things. I don't wear the pins on my winter coat to make a fashion statement -- I wear them, because nearly all of them were gifts from people I love and I like them and they mean something to me and if I didn't put them on my coat, I would forget to wear them. I wear the hats because they make me smile and they keep me warm and each of them was a gift from someone I care about. I wear the tutus because they are fun and they make people smile. I am usually not making a statement with my socks; there is some method to the madness when I mismatch them...usually. But sometimes, a pair of socks is just a pair of socks.

It's not that I don't appreciate people taking an interest. Sometimes, it's nice to be noticed (if somebody really gets it -- like the derby girl who pointed out that I often pair the alien sock with the space sock to go for a theme I didn't think anyone but me would notice).

But make no mistake: This is not for you.

If it pleases you or connects us, then that's an added bonus.

Is this what it's like to grow up and be your own girl?

"I can't explain a thing. I want everything to change and stay the same."

- Fall Out Boy, "(Coffee's for Closers)"

I first heard this song right around the time we found out Mom's cancer was terminal. At the time, the line "I will never believe in anything again" really resonated with me. I guess it says a lot that that's not the line that stands out the most to me anymore.

I worked on my book every single day in November. I wrote most days in December. I cut myself a little bit of slack around Christmas, given that I totaled my car 10 days before the holiday. (I'm fine. I like the car I got to replace the Shiny Blue Car -- the Black Pearl -- but I still really miss the Shiny Blue Car.)

I was really surprised to find that I was in a decent emotional place for Christmas. I thought it would be fairly miserable, given that a. last year was and b. last Christmas was only a couple months after Mom died, so I was still mostly a zombie. It wasn't awesome, but it wasn't miserable either. For now, I'll count that in the win column.

I finally finished the draft of the book I've been working on about a week and a half ago. Since then, I've been in a very weird emotional place.

I've heard people describe grieving -- especially when it takes you by surprise -- as the feeling you get when you miss a step. In my case, that's not really it. It's the feeling I get when I start to slip down the stairs -- am already hurtling toward the bottom -- and I'm panicking because I know it's going to hurt and I might really do some damage to myself and I'm already trying to figure out what I'm going to do if I shatter a leg and can't get back up the stairs to call someone or get outside to drive myself to the hospital; it's the feeling I get when I've caught myself mid-fall and I still feel trembly and scared because I know how close it came and even though I didn't actually hurt myself, part of me was so braced for it that it still does feel like I slammed into something.

That's kind of the feeling I've had for days now.

I know it'll pass. If I've learned nothing else the last 15 months (or the five months before it, or the two years before that), I have learned that the sad moods come and go just like the happy ones.

I know that part of this mood comes from it being a new year (which brings back lots of sad memories and always makes this time of year hard for me). I know that part of it comes from the fact that the last time I finished a draft of the book (even though I knew it wasn't quite the draft that time), it was a gift for my mother for her last Christmas. Part of it comes from knowing that even though she read that draft, she'll never read this one. She'll never read anything else I write again.

I realized the other day that Thursday is no longer my nemesis. I'm not sure exactly when that happened; I guess it happened around the time I stopped counting the eighths of the month. Now, I'm always surprised when I look at the calendar and realize that the 8th passed without my noticing or that it's Thursday and I feel okay. I counted every Thursday for six months, and then I just started calling Thursday my nemesis. I counted every 8th for a year. I guess those are the limits of my counting (which is good to know, because I know it's kind of weird).

So, here I am, book finished and completely paralyzed. I know there's some editing I need to do before I send it to any agents. And, I know that looking for an agent is the next step. I worked so hard to tell this story, and now I can't even let myself get really excited about the fact that it's mostly done. I've spent the better part of the last several days just trying to get myself to open its file on my computer again (which I still have not done).

And so, it really is true:

I-I-I-I can't explain a thing
And I-I-I-I want everything
to change and stay the same