Surrendering to the Undertow

and riding the waves ashore

Hello wonderful subscribers! I am so sorry I’ve been MIA. After turning in my book I melted into a blob of emotional processing. I’ve got a lot of plans for navel gazing this summer, which you will be hearing about in the next couple weeks.

For those of you that have cancelled your paid subscriptions…I totally understand. For those of you who haven’t; thank you. Please send me a message if you’d like me to tack on a couple free months for you. I am happy to do so. <3

In today’s newsletter I am writing about workaholism, the book publishing process, and my sobriety.

the familiar poppies of my old Seattle neighborhood

When I finished my book, I knew something awaited me.

I told my therapist about the river of concentrated energy that had been flowing into my book for the past five years. Once I turned it in, those energy particles surrounded me, suspended in the air like floating droplets of water, looking for direction. I floated with them, ungrounded.

We rarely talk about workaholism, but work can be an addiction like any other.

For the past two years I’ve worked 60-70 hours a week: teaching, attending my PhD coursework, and revising my forthcoming book. I did my best to care for myself throughout that time. There were pockets of what I’ll call forced self-care — when I had intense emotional episodes, CPTSD flashbacks, autoimmuine flares that forced me to stop. I did my best to take care of myself in those moments, but only in service of working again. On most days I woke early in the morning and worked until late evening. I didn’t take weekends and forgot what fun means. I sought comfort in food and television, both of them convenient and easily accessible.

Some of those now floating energy particles will inevitably be funneled into more work, but I want to direct the rest towards rest, which also requires energy. I’ve forgotten how to ask myself what I need, or part of me has forgotten how to answer that question.

I’ve been in Seattle for over a week, pet-sitting a few blocks away from my old Seattle dwelling (read about my move here). I have mostly watched many television shows (both seasons of Fued, too many episodes of The Americans) and scrolled social media, which I’d previously cut out of my life. for my first week here I slept poorly and very little. I also took walks, did my spinal rehab exercises, and dabbled in watercolor painting, but mostly I surrendered to my basest instincts, knowing I was reclibrating.

Yesterday I woke up after the first night of good sleep I’ve had in as long as I can remember and felt that it was the day. The day I knew was coming, when I would wake up and feel like myself again. Like a participant in this world. I slept well last night, reading instead of watching a show, and can feel myself moving towards what feels good rather than simply coping.

While I’ve been here in Seattle many have asked me, “have you done anything fun?” And truthfully, aside from spending some time with friends, I have not. I haven’t had the energy for fun. I’ve been hibernating. But it’s not like I’m on vacation to some new locale— Seattle is home to me, although I’ll never live here again, and everyone tying me to this place has died. So what would I do here for fun, when the clouds are so low and dark and the rain in unceasing? Finding my way to fun after so many years of intense work is an unfolding process.

Without struggle, I let the undertow sweep me away and, submerged underwater, did not panic. Something inside me, like air, always carries me to the surface, where I can breathe again. I rode the waves to shore. Yesterday I sat outside in the sunlight as the trees swayed in the wind. Today it is raining again, and I am writing and preparing my teaching materials for next week. And, of course, writing to you.

Three weeks ago I turned in my book. Immediately I wanted to take it back. Make it mine.

Because my editor (like many editors and publishing houses) wants my book to be 80k words, I pulled two fully revised chapters from my final draft only a frew hours before turning it in. I was proud of myself. “Kill your darlings,” Hemingway said. I murdered mine only to find that they deserve resurrection. The chapters weren’t important for the narrative arc, but they were essential for historical framing.

I asked myself:

Is this the book I want to release into the world?

How much has the editorial process and market demands changed the shape of my art?

What would this book be without those factors?

I have a good editor. She’s smart and gives me tons of feedback. Not all writers can say that (in fact I often hear of editors not giving enough feedback). I don’t always agree with what she says, but I am glad she says it, for the most part. Learning to work with an editor has been a process of trial and error.

Because this is my first book, my tendency was to privilege my editor’s feedback above my own creative instincts. I kept telling myself (without realizing it) that she knew more than me about my own story than I did. That she knew how it needed to be written.

Because this is my first book, my tendency throughout this process was to privilege my editor’s feedback above my own creative instincts. I told myself (without realizing it) that she knew how my book needed to be written.

This last round was different. I insisted on more time with the draft, and my publisher granted me that time. I assessed her edits alongside the opinions and thoughts of my beta readers and my own. My mantra became this is my book. I’m responsible for making sure it feels like mine.

But that 80k word count kept getting in the way.

Both my editor and agent have compared my book to Cheryl Strayed’s WILD, which is 130k words and doesn’t have historical elements (nor does it have a handy frame like the PCT hike). After I turned in my book I emailed my agent, asking if we could please push for 90k words so I can put those chapters back into the book. He said he would ask, and that’s where things stand at the moment. (fingers crossed).

I have to make peace with whatever happens. This is what it means to be a writer under capitalism. Maybe someday I will have a career that allows me more creative freedom, or maybe I’ll decide to publish outside of the current system. If I am lucky, I’ll be able to write another book.

My friend and I have joked about calling my second book HOTSHOT: THE B- SIDES because I have an entire book of material that was cut from this one. It’s a joke, right? Or is it perhaps worthwhile to think about publishing that material as a commentary of how we view “story” in current terms?

I feel proud of my book and the years I’ve spent writing and rewriting. It’s my book. Not a perfect specimen, but a human one. Once it goes to copy, I have to let it go.

If you ever wonder how I travel, here’s your answer. I pet-sit.

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I’ve heard people describe publishing a book as a kind of birthing process.

To me, it feels like I myself am being birthed— new and vulnerable, I am exposed to the world.

Publishing anything takes a lot of courage, is what I’ve learned. Especially if it’s honest.

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A few days ago I went with my friend to an AA meeting here in Seattle.

When I lived in Seattle a couple years ago I attended a few meetings online, but something inside me feared committing to the process. AA isn’t for everyone. Besides (that little something said), my relationship with alcohol has changed from the many years (nearly two decades) I spent blacking out and destroying my life. It’s fine now, right?

I didn’t intend to speak in the meeting, but was called upon, and I said something like this:

“I guess I am in the first month of my sobriety. I’ve resisted this for a long time, because my relationship with alcohol has changed over the past several years. I’ve been sober for long periods, and rarely have more than a drink. I don’t drink often, and never drink alone. But hearing everyone’s stories reminds me of my own: the two DUIs I got when I was twenty-one. The uncountable people I slept with while drunk, whose names I cannot remember. Waking up in foreign places and not knowing how I got there. I know it’s a knife’s edge; drinking. That I can fall back into that at any point. Why would I risk that?

About fourteen years ago my mom died by suicide. In the years preceding her death I watched her drinking accelerate, until she was downing several bottles of wine a day. I watched her disappear before she actually died, and was gone. She killed herself before she bought the gun. And I know that could also be my path. That one night I could have one drink, and then another, and then feel that urge to have a third. Then I’d want all the drinks. Once I’m drunk, that urge to destroy myself has found sustenance. Why would I risk that?”

In that room, surrounded by people who have been through it, I knew they understood me. I knew I needed to stop drinking. Not because I am destroying my life right now, but because of the risk I take with each drink. So, I’m sober now. Again. I’ll find some meetings in Honolulu, where I’m teaching high-school creative writing. I’ll find meetings in Tallahassee, where I live. I will choose a sponsor and work the steps— this is something I’ve never done. A process that doesn’t resonate with everyone, but would certainly be useful for me, especially as I usher my book into the world.

a photo of me as a young alcoholic and bulimic.

So, that’s where I am at right now. Moving towards more rest. More care. More full nights of sleep. For the past two years my average nightly sleep has been six hours. I look forward to stretching that to seven, then eight. I look forward to seeing how that feels. I look forward to deleting my social media again and reading before bed, because that feels so much better than watching a show.

I’m curious: what’s sustaining you right now? Where are you at your edge? Let me know in the comments, if you’d like to share.

What I’m enjoying:

• The book Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other by Danielle Dutton. I listened to a wonderful interview with her on the Between the Covers podcast (hosted by David Naimon)— their wide-ranging conversation is a worthwhile listen for all writers.

• The remastered Digeridoo album, by Aphex Twin. A brooding, lovely meditation.

• The television show Hacks. Is this maybe one of the best shows on television? I think it is. It’s hilarious and irreverent and emotional and brave. I love it.

• I am creating my PhD prelims list: 150 books I need to read over the next nine months. Hopefully I’ll finish it today. I can’t wait to share that journey with you and write about the books I’m reading!