Transitions and Transformations

It’s been over two months since I’ve written to you.

Sending this newsletter feels like a triumph for me. I have emerged triumphant from the gauntlet of my book’s publication– an event I had dreamed of for decades, a triumph itself, but a painful one. I mean, it was painful. Is painful no longer.

Some people equate releasing a book to having a baby. I am not one of those people, but Hotshot’s release was a kind of birth, and birth involves letting go. My book will be one year old on August twelfth, six days before my 46th birthday. The paperback debuted on May 12th to no fanfare (though I was thrilled, because I made some vital changes to the introduction). But Hotshot is very much alive. I know this because readers send me messages telling me how my work has affected them and made them feel seen.

Before Hotshot’s release I had dreams of fame and fortune– illusions, rather– stemming from a lifetime of living at, below, or slightly above the poverty line.

During the past year I’ve learned how growing up in poverty, a trauma in itself, deformed my mind. Magical thinking was my default, a necessary coping mechanism for which I am grateful, as it sustained me through many hard times. If my mind were a map the present moment would be plain and unmarked, the future plotted with bright, hopeful illustrations. The present moment was a perpetual depleted wilderness, lacking in resources and sustenance.

Over the past year I’ve learned the potency of living in reality.

Instead of pinning my self-worth on the future, waiting for the perfect moment ripe for blossoming, where I could blossom and be accepted by myself and others, where I could receive and give love freely and reach safe harbor, I have learned to arrive, and arrive, and arrive to this moment. The future remains beyond my reach. The present moment is all that exists.

I’ve been thinking of you all, the readers of this newsletter, often. I know that many of you regularly read Gathering, whether or not you comment or pay to subscribe, and I’m grateful for our relationship, for you having been with me over the past six years.

Since we last communed I have moved from Florida to Hawai’i. If you’re new here, you may not know that I’ve been teaching high-school English and creative writing off and on for the past decade at a private school in Honolulu. In May, I accepted an offer for part-time employment. There were many logistical hurdles, but I arrived in early June, along with my cat, Edna (who is finally, finally relaxing and settling in). The move was intense; exciting but difficult. I didn’t ask for help. Another lesson learned. Still, everything worked out. I mailed myself boxes of books and clothes and left almost everything else behind. Soon I’ll be finishing my PhD, looking for a new literary agent, and (hopefully) I’ll be able to publish another book before my fiftieth birthday. I made the decision to move after a season on the academic job market, where jobs are increasingly scarce.

For the first time in many years (since pre-covid?) a sense of coherence and routine has replaced the constant hustling and scrambling inherent in the life of a PhD candidate with no outside financial help. I was exhausted. For years I awoke each morning overcome with anxiety, wondering how I’d pay all of my bills, how I should organize my day or week or month, taking on more work that I could realistically produce and failing to maintain my health and social life. Yes, Honolulu has a high cost of living, but I am skilled at being frugal. I sold my car before moving here and have no intention of buying another one in the near future. I found an apartment with utilities included. Is my rent more than I paid in Florida? Yes. Are my expenses higher overall? Surprisingly, no. I don’t have to drive everywhere, and I am not filling my despair with online purchases or trips to Costco (although I do still shop at Costco). I am looking forward to seeing how a more stable life will affect my writing, my health, and my whole self.

Hawai’i is a complicated place. As a haole (outsider) I had reservations about moving here. As someone descended from colonizers I am cognizant of my lineage, and I don’t want to perpetuate further harm. I’m already learning the local language, literally and figuratively, and I feel at home in my neighborhood. Honolulu is one of my favorite cities, full of contradictions and liminal spaces, culturally diverse.

I’m excited to be teaching high-school in such a diverse place, at a school with a diverse student body– to learn from my students and co-workers, to learn to be a better communicator and teacher. When I moved to Florida I wanted to find a community, but I never did. I was isolated. I didn’t feel like myself while living there. Every time I left, I’d feel myself, but whenever I came back it was as if part of me died. I still don’t know why this happened. Likely it was a confluence of many factors, external and internal. For whatever reason(s), Honolulu invited me here, and I am grateful.

the view from my window in Honolulu

This newsletter, Gathering, has existed for nearly seven years.

Through many iterations. There were phases of trying to make this a lucrative financial endeavor, but I was never able to sustain a consistent publishing schedule. I was too busy keeping myself afloat. There’s no family or partner to help me financially– I think this has limited my ability to make Gathering solvent, along with the limitations presented by my autoimmune disorder and neurodivergence.

I feel like the best thing I can do is show up here authentically, when I can. I have a renewed sense of commitment, but not a rigid one. The onslaught of AI has robbed the internet of so much authenticity, replacing it with replicas of replicas. Rote sentence structures and paragraphs and echoes of echoes. My most powerful mode of resistance is to show up fully, as myself, and resist the colonization of “generative” language and concepts. Unlike AI, I am capable of original thoughts and ideas.

Yet this is also a bind. Artificial intelligence scrapes the internet. I don’t want my language stolen and reproduced.

This leads me to my two updates: I have paused paying subscriptions to Gathering. I’ll resume them once I have an idea of how often I can show up. Right now, my posting here will be limited to what I’m calling “Cloud Reports.” You see, the view from my lanai is stunning. The sky is always changing, as am I. I’m going to be revamping the newsletter for this sole purpose– to report the clouds and sky and share parts of myself here.

I may eventually change the name of this newsletter. I may change the way it looks. For now, I’m keeping things as they are, because I simply do not have the time or energy to do otherwise. I’m giving myself that grace: to not overdo it. To not try too hard. One thing at a time, right?

I also have ambitions of taking the newsletter analog. I’d like to create a physical newsletter and send it out in the mail every other month, along with some art and ephemera. But I need to see how the school year shapes up before I commit to doing something like that. Would people even be into that, if I were to do it? If so, let me know in the comments.

What I can tell you now about where I’m at is that I am happy. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel happy. I’m taking better care of myself. I feel more clear about my energy levels and commitments. I’m excited to begin teaching, to have a routine, to work in a supportive place, to live where I feel connected to my neighborhood and neighbors and community. I’m also working on a novel, which feels incredible. I love fiction so much. I’ve missed it.

I’m looking forward to meeting you here more often.

With Love,

River