Tough love and getting my shit together

O, what a brave new year that has such dilemmas in it. 

So, I finally got the tough-love talk that I was seeking. Since last May, when I finished out a federal government contract, doing communications works, I have floundered. I’m a writer, so I have some skills, having penned a debut horror novel and published short stories and poetry and with over 15 years experiences as a stringer, or freelance journalist. But still, since my gainful full-time employment ended, I have had, well, let’s just say troubles for now.

At first, I was pulled out in the tide of circumstances that comprise the pandemic. Feeling anxious, sensing looming depression, I have turned to crutches such as smoking pot and drinking, two of what I like to call the three ‘P’s (pints, pot and pornography). These habits have taken on a life of their own, developing their own habits, like bad-habit barnacles (BHB’s, for short). What I mean is they feed into one another. During an evening where I am seemingly only watching a film (typically, you guessed it-  horror - but also comedy and drama), I would start with a beer or a glass of wine, which became two drinks, and which lead to smoking up. The haze of marijuana is a fine time to analyze a thing, in my opinion, whether my own craft or a film.

Fast-forward to January, 2021. Everything I have described above has become rote. At first, I was drinking, smoking and porning every few nights, every other night. Then, this became nightly. So here I am, up against this nightly battle of will. But today, I gave a litany of my woes to my partner about an upcoming editing deadline (late January) and a my hesitation to look at revising my second horror novel, and frustrated at not placing short stories in six years (but much poetry in that time). She was trying to work (steady her steady teleworking day job of over 15 years) and this derailed. I asked her to give me some tough love, and boy, did she.

To summarize, she said, “You’re not seventeen anymore. You’re getting close to depression, but what you’re doing is unhealthy. You can’t be the guy complaining about not doing anything, and sit around not do anything.”

“Get your shit together.”

She said more, but I will not delve into here, but perhaps in later installments.

But I am getting ahead of myself. My name is James. I’m a writer. And  this blog is about just that- getting my shit together. Here, I will describe my battles, large and small, whether with the three P’s, Bad Habit Barnacles, crippling self-doubt, anxiety, depression, the outrageous slings and arrows of writerly misortune, the vagaries of freelancing, and my attempt to start a God-honest schedule, to form structure to my day. I’m going to be as frank, as brutally honest, as I can, and will describes the ups and downs of all these experiences during Covid. If this appeals to you, read on. If not, I wish you well. I will be writing for me, but sharing anything I think is useful, whether a cautionary tale, as hilarious, human or sad that may be.

I will be treating this blog like I treated journals I used to keep in grade school, high school, university and for a stretch after university, into my late twenties. That means I will not be self-censoring and that the wordsmithing might be rough around the edges, at times drafty, but the writing will be true, and honest, which is often more important than refinement. Here, I will try to make sense of things.

And, yes, get my shit together.