Shipping was Good

A thought finally emerges. I type it out before I lose it. It’s terrible. Delete. I type again. Nope—God awful—delete again. Trite, dull, cliché. I check the thesaurus for better descriptions of how I feel about my writing lately: stale, threadbare, dime-store, cornball. Yup—they all pretty much sum it up. If I do manage to write a decent sentence, I’ve probably already said it—and most likely more than once.

My phone dings. Sweet relief. Someone is texting me asking about piano lessons. YES! I can distract myself for another few minutes. I exchange pleasantries with a former student who now wants her five-year old to start lessons. I’ve finally reached the point in my career where I’ve become the musical grandmother to the children of my past students. I email her my studio policy information, which takes less than three minutes. Back to it, Jess!

My cushy lap desk

I arrange the huge pillow desk I’ve recently purchased on Amazon so I can sit comfortably on my couch and write. I told myself that I wasn’t writing because I wasn’t comfortable sitting at my desk, and if I’m not careful, my sciatica will flare up again. This special $60 pillow was just the thing I needed to get back to being consistent with my writing. And it must be working because I’m currently writing this post. But now my back is starting to hurt. It must be the damn couch—it’s so uncomfortable—and ugly, too. I should probably buy a new couch. If I had a better couch, I’m sure I’d write more frequently.

For another distraction I check Amazon for any new reviews on my novel. Someone has left me a three-star review—which is not even a bad rating, really. I’ll take a three-star over a one-star anytime. This person writes: “Didn’t like the story. But shipping of book was good.” I mean, who writes that? They don’t recommend the book, but if you’re going to buy it, you will really enjoy the shipping part! If I read a book I don’t care for, I never intentionally give the author a bad review—I just don’t recommend that book to anyone. It’s already a given that authors are chock full of self-doubt and insecurity, not to mention constantly beating themselves up over their work—why twist the knife?

No room for more plants

I check the time. It’s still early enough to get to the nursery to buy flowers to plant this weekend. If I go now, there still might be some good stuff left. Noooo! There’s no room left to plant anything anyway. But then again, I did just recently become a member of the local botanical garden, which gives me a five percent discount on all plant purchases. I’ll just go look to see if they have anything new. Jess, stop it right now.

What should I have for lunch today? There’s leftover homemade albóndigas soup in the fridge but I ate two heaping bowls for lunch and dinner yesterday and should probably make a salad. Or maybe I’ll order something on Door Dash. No, wait—way too expensive. Luckily, my husband just called and wants to go out to dinner tonight. Now I’ve got to figure out a restaurant and make a reservation because he’s “working.” Bless his heart. That should kill at least another 10 to fifteen minutes.

Or maybe I’ll just finish this blog post and then actually get back to work on my shitty first draft of my second novel. The writing will no undoubtedly sound vapid and predictable, but at least there will be something, and a start is better than nothing. I can always fix it later.

And in a year or two it will turn out to be good enough so that the person who buys it will not only enjoy the shipping experience, but maybe the book as well.

Or skip the whole shipping part and visit your local Indy bookstore. Their shipping is really good.

 

Meaningful Connection

I was supposed to have my Christmas cards done and sent out by now, but the sad fact is I haven’t even started. This year, there is no adorable Mireles family photo, mostly because we are no longer adorable, but even more so, it’s impossible to get everyone together in the same place at the same time. It also doesn’t help that I’m visually impaired at the moment while recovering from eye surgery (You try getting anything done with an annoying gas bubble floating behind your eye for weeks on end.)

It’s silly that I feel like a failure if I don’t spend hours composing our annual newsletter and then adding a hand written line or two on a Christmas card. Not to mention waiting in line at the post office to purchase all those stamps (I do love a pretty holiday stamp, though—especially those with red birds in trees, or the snowy forest scenes.) Then there’s the cramming everything into envelopes and stuffing them all into the mailbox for the poor mail carrier to pick up. All that work, and probably most folks don’t have the time or interest to sit down and read about what we are all up to—nor do I imagine they even care.

But I’m one of those old-school weirdos that love getting greeting cards and letters in the mail. If you send me a newsletter, I swear that I will read every single line with relish. Then I’ll tape your festive holiday photo/card up on our front entry closet door so I can admire your smiling faces every time I walk into the house.

Being part of the generation that grew up before email and social media, we often had to wait a very long time to hear from someone. Back then, instant gratification wasn’t always the case, so the anticipation became everything. Waiting for that special letter to come in the mail always gave you something exciting to look forward to.

Forty years ago, after I had fallen madly in love with husband after dating him for only three weeks, he left to go back to Mexico for several months. His family home had no phone, so he had to take a bus into Oaxaca City and find a pay phone to call me collect. Let’s just say that for a college student on a limited budget, regular phone calls were out of the question. Instead, we penned love letters to each other. I can still remember the thrill of finding a special green and red striped air mail envelope in my mailbox. I would read his letters over and over, and they made me feel as if I was holding a part of him close to me. After all these years, we still have all the letters we exchanged tucked away in a special box.

The first homemade Christmas card Rene sent me from Oaxaca.

Don’t get me wrong, a holiday message doesn’t always have to be in the form of a tangible letter—I love receiving email greetings as well. I experience immense pleasure reading about what you’ve been up, especially if this is the one interaction we have all year long. Connection, however brief, is still extremely meaningful. I’d much rather think about you once a year than not at all.

Back when the kids were young, they went with their dad on a trip to Oaxaca, while I stayed home for some reason. While on the beach there, they met a couple from South Carolina with whom they shared the cost of a boat tour. Since that meeting, our families have been exchanging Christmas newsletters with them for over 25 years—and I’ve never even met them! Two of their grown children/grandchildren live in Oakland, very near to where my daughter lives.

I believe it’s so valuable for us to keep our connection alive. My hope is that after Christmas, I’ll send out a New Years’ card and newsletter although this year, I make no promises. If you read this post, please know that I loved receiving your greeting, and I will carry the happy thought of you with me during this beautiful holiday season.

I wish you peace and joy into the coming year as well!

And do check your mailbox, as I might come through after all.

A few of Rene’s letters that would make me jump for joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Patience of a Saint

People have told me that I have the patience of a saint. It’s definitely in my job description, as sitting at a piano for five or more hours a day with students who don’t always practice requires this useful character trait. My imperturbable temperament has also helped me raise four daughters to adulthood and allowed me to stay married to the same man for thirty-six years. Both rewarding, but both not inherently easy. If and when he reads this, my husband is definitely thinking, “It takes two to tango, Honey.” And indeed it does.

I’m also a bit of a scaredy-cat. Since I was a young girl, I’ve dealt with a lot of anxiety. Our poor, traumatized parents mixed with the culture of 1970’s really messed with us, and like many of my peers, I had a bit of a tumultuous childhood which led to insecurity and lack of self worth. I’m not sure exactly when I decided that I wasn’t intelligent or beautiful enough, but unfortunately, I’ve carried these untruths around in my head for decades.

When I was in my late forties, after I almost lost my youngest to cancer (you know the story), I let go of some of my fear and decided to write a novel. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing, as I’d never had any real training in creative writing except for one semester in college. That vile voice in my mind kept telling me to forget it—that no one would ever want to read something I wrote—but I somehow managed to fight her off. It took me more than five years, but I completed a novel. In April of 2020, She Writes Press published Lost in Oaxaca.

Yep—2020. You remember the pandemic? After all my preparation for a book launch, WHAM—everything shut down. No party, no book launch, zilch.

But my perseverance kicked in and I went full force on social media to keep promoting my book: “If you can’t travel to Oaxaca in person, at least you can travel there in your mind!” or “Hang out in the backyard under an umbrella (six feet away from anyone, please) and tag along with Camille as she navigates the magical land of Oaxaca!” or “Please, please, please, just buy my damn book!”

I really must’ve driven you all crazy with all of my posting and blogging. I’m so sorry I spent so much time trying to insert the fact that I wrote a book into every conversation. I swear I’m not a narcissist! But hey, I was not about to let my lifelong dream die.

I guess my determination and patience paid off, as book sales are still going strong. But the most exciting thing that’s happened is that Lost in Oaxaca has recently been optioned by Sony Pictures to be made into a film! Now, before you get too excited, this is just an option, which means they are interested in seeing where it goes, and it may never make it to the big screen. But they’re paying me more than the standard amount, so clearly they’re interested.

And how could they not be? Adventure, music, romance, culture, and travel all wrapped up into one exciting story—you see where I’m going with this. Promote, promote, promote!  And you thought I was finally done talking about my book.

Whatever happens, it’s been such a wonderful ride these past few years. Thank you for all of your continued love and support. If it does actually make it to the movies, we’re having a big screening and you’re all invited!

And Remember: Good things come to those who wait.

 

If you’ve read Lost in Oaxaca, who do you think should play the main roles in the movie?

My picks are as follows:

Camille: Emma Stone or Rachel McAdams

Camille’s Mother: Allison Janney

Alejandro: Tenoch Huerta (although he’s currently embroiled in some controversy so there’s that.) Maybe an unknown?

Graciela: Yalitza Aparicio (she’s older, but definitely could play an 18 year old.)

Sofia: No idea!

Leave a comment and let me know your picks!

No Rush

I’m not writing lately. Well, I’m writing right now, but it’s not the kind where you shut yourself up in a room and write for so long that your shoulders hurt. I used to do that. Before the pandemic hit, I did it so much that I actually finished a novel. It’s been almost three years since my pub date (that’s legit industry lingo in case you’re interested) before everything stopped in its tracks before it got started.

Mind you, I’m not complaining here. My little book has actually done pretty well for a first time author, and is still selling consistently. I’m merely trying to explain how the pandemic and it’s after affects have kept me in a sort of limbo where I can’t seem to move on. I’m still so distracted that I longer have the focus and determination I once had. Where I used to be able to set goals, my brain now meanders around with no organization or end game in sight.

I have oodles of ideas swimming around in my head for a new novel, as well as several developing characters who speak to me often. I try my damnedest to ignore them, but they poke me in the ribs as I play that final Words with Friends game before I fall off to sleep. They’re there in the morning as I groggily drink my coffee, urging me to head upstairs to my computer and write something about them.

“Tell our story!” they scream.

I try to appease them. “Just give me one sec—I swear I’ll write something. I’m going to have another cup of coffee and then I promise—I’ll write about you. But first I need to check my phone.”

A three-mile walk, a trip to the grocery store, lunch with a friend, followed by five hours of teaching piano lessons, and the day has eroded like the southern California coastline.

Not a single word written.

Intellectually, I know that all writers go through dry spells—most are honest about this common dilemma and are able to offer themselves some grace. Unfortunately, I carry a familial genetic marker that makes me repeat to myself the ridiculous lie that I’m a worthless loser. I feel such pressure to prove that I can write another book—that I’m not a one-trick pony.

For once I’m pleased that I have age on my side, and the wisdom to know that I can and will get through this slump. And lucky for me, those friends in my head who want to come to life will not leave me alone until I give them their rightful spot on the page.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh said it well:

“In general, I feel, or I have come to feel, that the richest writing comes not from the people who dedicate themselves to writing alone. I know this is contradicted again and again but I continue to feel it. They don’t, of course, write as much, or as fast, but I think it is riper and more satisfying when it does come. One of the difficulties of writing or doing any kind of creative work in America seems to me to be that we put such stress on production and material results. We put a time pressure and a mass pressure on creative work which are meaningless and infantile in that field.”

Breathe, Jess. There’s no damn rush.

If Only

I hate that I always take on the emotional struggles of others. I can’t help it—there’s this insane need inside me to chase away the burdens of those whom I love. If only (fill in the blank) or (fill in another blank) then all would be right in the universe, and then I could take a deep breath and finally relax. You’d think at sixty, I might have figured out that this is NEVER going to happen.

We are taught to believe that in order to have a fulfilled life, we must be content at all times. Like most people, I’ve been striving for happiness since I was a young girl, creating so many “if only” scenarios in my mind that I learned to ignore the little miracles that take place in front of me on a daily basis. How can I possibly look out the window to notice the changing leaves of the Liquid Ambar trees when I’m worried that my children are unfulfilled in their careers? How can I feel comfortable in my home when all I notice is that the walls need painting, or that the termites are silently eating away the insides of my house? How can I sit and drink that second cup of coffee when I should be out taking a five-mile walk? What if my daughter doesn’t get into the college of her dreams? How can I prevent her from feeling hurt and disappointed should that comes to pass?

I remember thinking years ago that “if only” I published a novel, all would be right in my world.  I would finally feel accomplished, and experience that sense of worthiness I’ve been longing for my entire life. Yeah, right.  Sure, I wrote a book, and sure, there were some really wonderful moments, but eventually my life went back to the way it was before. Now I find myself again at square one, worrying how I’m going to find the motivation to work on that second book.

Ugh. Carrying all this angst is overwhelming. And yet, how effortlessly I throw it over my shoulders every morning. How easily I tighten the straps as the day progresses. For years, I’ve shouted to the heavens and beyond that we cannot control everything that happens to us—that we just don’t have that kind of power. That it’s not about the end result—but it’s about the process? Intellectually, I understand all of this. Yet my heart will not listen.

One moment, one hour, one day at a time.

One word, one sentence, one chapter at a time.

Process equals joy.

Say it with me.

Relishing the Happiness

These days, it’s not easy to allow ourselves to feel happy. Often, I don’t even recognize when I feel content—I’m so used to feeling incredulity, rage, and fear (usually in that order.) When I do notice that I’m feeling good, my mind immediately tries to shut it down—after all, who am I to feel okay when our democracy is in peril, injustice is rampant, and so many are suffering?

Maybe you can relate to how I find myself in a quandary because I’ve been feeling unusually good lately. Born with a melancholic soul, my mood tends to gravitate toward the bluer hues in life, and I’m very comfortable with the weight of sadness that has perched upon my shoulders for as long as I can remember. Maybe my recent happiness can be attributed to the three miles of walking I’ve been doing each day, or that my garden is in the height of its colorful blooms, or that the weather on the central California coast has been glorious. Now contrast that with all terrible (and I mean terrible) shit that has been hitting the collective fan lately, and you can see why I would be feeling so guilty for feeling happy.

Case in point: in the midst all the traumatic events transpiring in our country, something really wonderful occurred for me personally: I finally had my book signing for my novel, Lost in Oaxaca at Chaucer’s, our local Indy bookstore in Santa Barbara. Now, I ask you, “Who in the world has a book signing a full two years after their book comes out?”  That would be me.

As far as I’m concerned, this event was one of the highlights of my life. It really helped to have a supportive bookstore who worked to keep my book alive during a two-year pandemic. It also helped that the person in charge of events (the wonderful Michael Takeuchi) really loved Lost in Oaxaca, and led the event conversation with engaging and interesting questions. Most importantly though, having a crowd of friends and family who came to show their love and support meant the world to me.

And today I’m happy to report that a brand new book has hit the shelves: Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis—“a sometimes comforting, sometimes devastating, but universally relatable collection of prose, poetry, and art about living through difficult times like these.” My essay, “The Artistry Within Us” is included. All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the non-profit World Central Kitchen.

I hope that you will consider purchasing this lovely book featuring inspiring essays, poetry and artwork—all by women, and that it will move you and help you to cope during these trying times of strife and suffering. Please consider ordering it from Chaucer’s—let’s support our wonderful local gem of a bookstore!

As I lay Lost in Oaxaca to rest and move on to a new project, I’m thankful that my little book has done quite well for a first-time novelist. I’m going to make a conscious effort to allow myself to relish the happiness I feel for my success.

And I can’t thank you all enough for your support over the years—for reading and commenting on my blog, for purchasing my novel for yourself and your friends—and mostly, for putting up with my constant promotion.

As my very generous gift to you, I promise to stay quiet for a while.

In case you weren’t able to come and want to watch!

Meant to Be

Around this time fifteen years ago, my world came crashing down. You may already know my story— god knows I’ve talked and written about it extensively over the years: Mom of three almost grown kids finds herself unexpectedly pregnant at forty-two and gives birth to a fourth daughter, who at the age of two is diagnosed with leukemia. Almost three years of chemotherapy later, that daughter is considered cured, and life goes back to what it was before.

Except that it doesn’t.

I think about the woman I was before my daughter’s cancer diagnosis—unfulfilled, stressed, and oh, so judgmental. In my quest to be the perfect mom with perfect children, I was critical of everything and everyone around me. I wallowed in my unhappiness, preventing myself from experiencing the beauty and joy that was offered with each day. It took my baby girl almost dying to snap me out of it.

I want to go back in time and have a conservation with that young mom. I want her to know that despite the trauma she faced as the daughter of an alcoholic father, it was never her fault. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her how incredible she is—that she is beautiful, smart and talented, and that her creativity has no bounds. That there’s nothing she can’t accomplish if she just believes in herself. I want to tell her to let go of the fear.

On June 7^th, a book will come out entitled, Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis. It is a compilation of essays, poetry and artwork exclusively by women. My essay, The Artistry Within Us will be featured. Here is the description of the book:

Art keeps good alive in the worst of times. In the face of ugliness, pain, and death, it’s art that has the power to open us all to a healing imagining of new possibility; it’s art that whispers to the collective that even in the ashes of loss, life always grows again. That’s why right now, in this tumultuous time of war and pandemic, we need poets more than we need politicians.

In response to the multitude of global crises we’re currently experiencing, Editor Stefanie Raffelock put out a much-needed call to her writing community for art to uplift and inform the world, and the authors of She Writes Press answered. Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis—a sometimes comforting, sometimes devastating, but universally relatable collection of prose, poetry, and art about living through difficult times like these—is the result. Addressing topics including grief and loss, COVID-19 and war in Ukraine, the gravity of need and being needed, the broad range of human response to crisis in all its forms, and more, these pieces explore how we can find beauty, hope, and deeper interpretation of world events through art—even when the world seems like it’s been turned inside out and upside-down. 

Any and all royalties from Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis will be donated to World Central Kitchen.

 

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=art+in+the+time+of+unbearable+crisis&crid=2Q1HW86SGH58U&sprefix=art+in+the+time%2Caps%2C218&ref=nb_sb_ss_retrain-deeppltr_1_15

Fifteen years ago, I never thought I’d fulfill my dream of becoming a writer, let alone publish a novel. And while I wouldn’t wish my daughter’s cancer experience one anyone—ever, it truly was the catalyst for changing me into the person I was meant to be. For this I am beyond grateful.

My youngest is seventeen now. She is everything I should’ve been at her age: proactive, poised, and confident. Fearlessly, she dives into the depths of each day, never considering how deep the water might be. She knows how to stay afloat.

And even though I spent most of my life dog-paddling in the shallow end, I was able to rise above my self-imposed limitations, and teach my daughter to swim.

Avoidance

For the past fifteen minutes, I have written at least ten sentences and then immediately erased every single one of them. They were terrible sentences— all of them trite, dull and uninspired.

I’ve gotten up from my desk four times; once to run downstairs to watch the cat stare out the window at the birds snacking at the birdfeeder; another to switch a load of laundry (because those sheets gotta get dry), once to pee, and finally, to bring the portable speaker upstairs so I could play some Spotify music, which I somehow believed would inspire me to write beautiful and moving sentences.

I wake each day with the purest intentions of doing what I love—and often hate—more than anything: write. Yet, for the past year I have found the feeblest of excuses to avoid doing just that. I did start writing my second novel: a shitty first draft of chapter one is actually down on my computer—yet the rest remains sequestered in my head. The story wants to come out, but unfortunately my avoidance gene has been vibrating in high gear as of late.

I’m an expert at avoidance. I’ve practiced it my entire life. I used to do it with not practicing the piano; I did it with not completing assignments in high school and in college. Maybe it’s a form of ADHD—a trait that runs in my family—or maybe it’s a learned behavior. Either way, my brain is wired to tell me that I shouldn’t bother, because whatever I do, it won’t be good enough. That I’m nothing but a big fraud.

So it’s just easier not to try.

I think many of us avoid following our dreams for this very reason. We worry about others criticizing or rejecting us. Society has bombarded us with these unreasonable expectations of what success is—how our bodies should look; what possessions we own; what we should have already accomplished in our lives. Even though most of us are savvy enough to understand the false beauty of the images we see in advertising or social media, we still compare ourselves to that impossible standard. And if we can’t reach that standard, WHY BOTHER?

If I don’t try, then no can tell me I’m not good enough. And while I’ve embraced avoidance as an easy alternative to facing the pain of this imagined rejection, I know in my heart that it will ultimately kill my creative soul.

And so I’ve forced myself to write today. I’ve pushed through the avoidance and spilled out some words, and I feel different now than when I first started. There is a tiny seed of accomplishment growing inside of me—that maybe something seemingly insignificant has grown into something more meaningful. Maybe I’m not a fraud after all—that the voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough is the real liar.

Perhaps it’s not what we accomplish that gives us the real joy, but the process of doing that gets that dopamine going in our brains. Finishing something feels good, but the pursuit of getting there is where the real rapture lies.

Thank you, my dear readers, for helping me get to where I need to go.

On to chapter two!

The view from my writing desk.

One Year Ago

Today, exactly one year ago, my debut novel, Lost in Oaxaca was published. I’d been looking forward to 2020 for a very long time, knowing that it was going to be a time of great success for me. After years of hard work, I would finally experience my life’s crowning achievement.

Yes, indeed—I was destined to be the queen of Indy publishing. People would flock to bookstores to buy my novel; copies would sell out in days and the publisher would have to scramble to print more books. A mile-long line of fans would snake around our local bookstore at my book signing event. I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you the gory details. The truth is, you’d never be able to imagine the vividly narcissistic fantasies I’d compiled in my mind about my 2020 literary success.

It’s truly embarrassing. I’m just thankful you can’t get into my head.

Dreams are fun, but they can dissipate quickly, especially during a pandemic. I must reiterate—my disappointments are nothing compared to what some folks have experienced in 2020. But as it is required that writers write about their feelings, I’ll not let you down.

There was no selling out of Lost in Oaxaca. In fact, bookstores sent back the unsold copies to my publisher. There was no book signing event; no launch party. ZILCH.

The reality is that even without a pandemic, my extravagant fantasies of literary success would not have come to life. After all, I’m an inexperienced, first time novelist who has spent her adult life teaching piano lessons, running a household, and raising four children. Lost in Oaxaca was never going to be a worldwide bestseller.

My publisher made it clear from the beginning: YOU MUST WRITE AT LEAST 3 NOVELS before you can expect to gain a following. EVEN THEN, you will most likely only have moderate success.

“LALALALALALALA!” I shouted, stuffing my fingers into my ears. You’d think a piano teacher of over 30 years would understand the art of listening, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I was going to be the exception.

If this damn pandemic has taught me anything, it’s that who I am is not related to how many books I sell, and that my success is not dependent on an Amazon ranking. Sure, it feels good to sell a book. But the act of writing—putting words to a page—is what brings me the real joy, and this should be my focus. I am happy and fulfilled when I write, and that’s enough.

I’m so incredibly thankful that folks have bought my little book and told me they loved it. They’ve left me so many encouraging messages and positive reviews. I am deeply indebted to Chaucer’s, our local Santa Barbara Indy bookstore, who kept Lost in Oaxaca front and center this past year. They even acknowledged that I held best seller status—at least in the category of local authors. If that’s not a modicum of success, I don’t know what is.

Hey—I just remembered that my publisher also told me that the life of a novel is around three years. That means I’ve still got two more years left to promote Lost in Oaxaca.

And two more years to come up with additional elaborate fantasies of my incredible literary success!

And you thought I was done talking about my book. NEVER!

Distracted

I almost didn’t sit down to write this morning. As the queen of procrastination, I’ll pretty much do anything to avoid getting started on any writing project. These days, even the thought of constructing a simple blog post is overwhelming.

I’d already backed the minivan into the driveway with the intention of ridding it of a year’s worth of Covid-19 garbage, including my collection of discarded disposable masks that somehow all smell like a barnyard (I sincerely hope that my breath isn’t really that foul!) Then there are the multiple crumpled up Starbucks treat bags, bits of dried leaves from last fall, and enough dog hair to stuff a small pillow. I had originally looked into getting my car detailed, but the hefty price tag persuaded me that I should do it myself. So what if it took me four hours and came with the probability of straining my already sore back? As I bounded upstairs to change into some sweats and a ratty t-shirt, I passed my laptop sitting alone on my desk, its screen covered in a sheen of dust.

“You’re an asshole,” it whispered.

A true friend always tells it like it is.

Yes, I’ve been distracted lately, and there hasn’t been a whole lot of writing going on. I could blame it on pandemic-related depression (a valid excuse for many of our struggles these days), but the truth is that my avoidance of writing has always been related to my feelings of self-worth. Throughout my entire life, I’ve fought with that malicious bitch in my brain who lies to me about my abilities. And after more than a year of isolation, change, and a constant stream of worry, she has made herself comfortable in my head, soaking in a tub brimming with doubt and insecurity.

Oh, you know her, too?

My personal struggles pale in comparison to what others have been through during this pandemic, and I do realize I am one of the lucky ones. But isolation is difficult nonetheless. I miss my family. I miss seeing my piano students in person. I miss interacting with people—I want the world to see that I’m smiling at them. I’m dying to embrace people again.

I do know we’ll get through this. It’s getting better day by day (at least where I live) and even with all of my worry and distraction, I’m beginning to feel a slight sense of hope again. My family and I are vaccinated. Summer is just around the bend, and maybe, just maybe—we’ll go back to a semblance of normalcy. And when that time comes, be prepared. Because I may hug you and never let go.

There. I’ve written a few words. That bitch in my head has temporarily submerged herself under the water. She’s quiet—at least for now.

Off to clean the van!

Nah. I’ll do it tomorrow