“Hazy Shade of Winter”
A walk a day keeps the cancer away. That’s the saying, right? No? Well, shit, I’m living it anyway. Is that deluded? Who knows, but it doesn’t hurt anything, except sometimes my back. And my hips. I believed I was a strict music gal, strutting like George Jefferson to the beats-per-minute of my SOFI TUCKER Pandora station. But since the New Year, I’ve switched to audiobooks. I’m on my 17th for the year. That’s not a flex. It’s a wonder! My goal with this change is to absorb a range of storytelling.
For transparency, I DNF’d a few. Five to be exact. I returned two without even starting them because I accidentally checked out foreign language versions. While maybe I should learn German, jumping in with an Emily Henry rom-com is probably not the helpful immersion I need. I muscled through four novels, nitpicking but not enough to DNF. I even finished the one where the FMC’s secret past mistake turned out to be shagging the MMC’s brother. Gross. Aside: I hate a brother love triangle. However, Brother Love Triangle would be a kick ass band name. I adored five of the year’s selections and desperately wanted to discuss the nuances with my former physical therapist. Gurl! 👀 📩 🤙
On my Saturday walk, I realized this newsletter’s main article was something I shouldn’t publish. It felt good to write. There were funny, sarcastic Maria-esque moments. But it needed to be a different communication. I decided to self-edit.
To satisfy curiosity from that vagueness, the article was about my role in an NSF grant submission. My university put its hat in the ring for a national AI Operations Center. 🤯 I collaborated with AI to design a crisp, readable workflow diagram. You can interpret that sentence how you wish. The client was happy, so I was happy. The grant awardee will assume a weighty responsibility on behalf of our nation, and I wish my team (of which I was a very minor player) all the luck with the submission. I don’t typically like this phrase, but it feels fitting. You got this, team! [Insert herkie jump—possibly the only cheer jump I could still manage without a trampoline.]
OK, so I needed a new direction. But now what? I’ve struggled to collect my thoughts since the beginning of the year. Was this writer’s block? Probably. I wrote almost 1000 words on the emotions and craziness of the ICE-y winter and the two dead in Minnesota. The tune “Ohio” by CSN&Y doesn’t pair 1:1 with that phrase, but my mind is trying to make it work. It doesn’t.
Related to that topic, I have a friend who created a wonderful hand-lettered poster as a memorial. I’m projecting, but maybe my lovely pal created this work as an exercise in controlling what she could in an out-of-control situation, expressing humanity through her art after watching her fellow citizens act like animals. Again, projecting, but maybe y’all feel similarly, and an artistic memorial to the fallen would be appreciated. Her free download is yours to enjoy.
The article I scrapped was shorter, but still an impressive read. Maybe the blockage was just a kink in the hose. My creative brain may have been in conservation mode, preserving itself from overheating due to the excesses of multitasking. I started painting again. It’s been eighteen years since finishing ’65 GTO, and the ’58 Corvette is coming along nicely. Also, I decided to give book one (SCAARS) another editorial once over. An agent who passed on book two because the topic hit too close to home mentioned wanting to read other work, if I had any. She finally opened to queries after months of being closed, so SCAARS came off the bench. Doing a full manuscript proofread is time-consuming and potentially procrastination disguised as productivity.
Social media exacerbates the stress of querying. I’m a lurker and sometimes participant within the writing community on X. I tolerate some really shitty behavior and shittier opinions because it’s where the agents are. And lordy! The WriComm has opinions, especially about AI. I keep my mouth shut as I straddle two worlds. The creative world finds AI to be problematic (put diplomatically): an intellectual property thief, an energy glutton, and a lazy man’s aid to any part of the creative process. They aren’t wrong. On the flip side, my supervisors love and champion its use, and the university offers AI courses, through which all faculty, staff, and students have been “encouraged” to earn a badge. And then there is the grant project I participated in, not to mention what the grant is fucking for. I know which side my bread is buttered, and I’m just trying not to drop my slice on the carpet.
The WriComm’s vibe has gotten tense, and not only about AI. The amount a writer should read gets folks heated. Sides are frequently taken on any number of topics. Camps form. Studies say social media is bad for your mental health (like, duh!), and X is essentially the seedy gas station bathroom of the internet. So, navigating the bleak publishing industry during this deadly winter, while the scene is heavy, has given me the blues. No wonder I experienced some writer’s block.
On my Sunday afternoon walk, I remembered why I’m doing this—my silly, deluded, noble goal for SCAARS. I had the trail to myself, which I love and is rare. The emptiness was due to the temperature being 24˚, but “feels like” 13˚. Cold. Butt-ass cold, to be exact. And it was snowing. Not accumulating, but the ethereal kind that floats and swirls amidst the kissing scene of a Hallmark holiday movie. I forgot myself and was playfully reaching for the feathery flakes, lost in the beauty. When I refocused on the trail, another walker appeared, smiling at my childlike wonder. At first, I was embarrassed. Busted! But I knew the guy. And seeing him made me happy. Like teary-eyed happy.
This fellow and I cross paths on the trail every couple of months, always on Sundays. I was first introduced to him on September 2, 2022—a day I was at my literal worst. I had semi-recovered from ten wretched days of COVID and was receiving my first megadose of Taxol. That’s a chemo drug, if you’re unfamiliar (and I sincerely hope you are). Three immunotherapy and four chemotherapy infusions were under my belt. The nurse, my fellow trail walker, noted I was his first chemo patient who had had COVID. Someone had to be his first.
He watched me slowly fade that afternoon as he helped administer med after med after med. COVID made my potassium levels dangerously low, so a potassium pill was med #1. It’s a horse pill, for a visual, like the size of a slug. Then there were the two pre-chemo IV meds (diphenhydramine and famotidine), followed by the megadose of Taxol, which was a three-hour infusion. The experts encourage patients to freeze their hands and feet for the duration. Three fucking hours! When your hands and feet are otherwise occupied, like slabs of meat, it’s difficult to do much. I attempted to eat. That was a huge mistake. So, to help with the mounting nausea, I was given an extra dose of Benadryl to bookend the Potassium. I successfully made it home before puking. [Insert herkie jump.]
The second time I crossed paths with the nurse was the day I got to ring the bell. These are two very distinct memories tied to one man. While ringing the bell is emotional, I’d not claim either of these as happy memories. However, he reminded me that I survived, and he had a part in me getting there. A sort of symbol of the humanness in an otherwise shitty situation—like my pal Hollis’s poster. I hope that seeing me thriving in the world, walking to keep the cancer away, trying to catch swirling snowflakes, and being happy to be alive affirms his sense of purpose. Seeing him that afternoon reaffirmed mine, and why I’m on this path.
If you're wondering, the nurse’s name is Ed. ❤️ (IYKYK)
