Dana Bowman Creative

Sister friends.

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Me and my awesome friend, Jess, on the week before our podcast launch. Happy days 🙂

So, happy Monday everybody. I spent most of the weekend feeling like congealed gravy. It was a a mixture of (deep breath): Allergies/menopause/overwhelm/parenting two boys who are tweens/AND also I finished a really good book and didn’t have a NEW book to replace it this weekend so I was adrift.

You know what I mean. Right?

But it’s MONDAY and I’m gonna just MONDAY the living daylights out of it. This morning, I got up before dawn and put on a hoodie (#nobraseason) and left for very early coffee on my friend’s front porch. Her porch makes me feel like I am on an Alpine vacation and since it’s very possible I will be spending a good part of my day later doing very un-vacationey things like cleaning and working, this little Alpine retreat was a great start to my day. One can always hold a tiny slice of 7 am Swiss Alps in our hearts to help tide us over when later we are trying to understand why teenagers leave trails of Slim Jim wrappers everywhere they go, like slugs with a thing for protein.

Four of us were there, surrounded by fuzzy blankets and a whole lot of pumpkin spice creamer, and at 7 am, before the sun, we proceeded to dive into: insecurities/overwork/children/fear/parenting/healing/perspective/aging/& how chobani pumpkins spice creamer are the best.

Again, this was all at seven am. We are like the Navy Seals of introspective self-healing folk.

All this mental communion then motivated me to go for a run. So basically I have turned a corner on the congealed gravy thing.

Look, I’ve been married for a while now, and my husband is my best friend. But. My girl friends? They are my sister-friends. I need them so desperately. To be honest I wasn’t always like this. It took turning fifty, menopause, and just a whole lot of life to really help me see and value and NEED these women in my life.

And, I’m thankful for early runs and Monday restarts and sun that slants on a crisp morning and makes you feel like anything in this life is possible. Oh and pumpkin spice creamer because I’m basic I guess?

And allergy meds. Oh thank you sweet Lord.

But today I am just mostly forever grateful for my girlfriends.

My sister friends.

Tiny Brave.

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Do you ever feel like you live a life squished down? A small life? A dusty one?

Ever feel like you don’t make a difference?

YEA ME NEITHER. I TOTALLY MAKE A DIFFERENCE. I AM AMAZING AND SO ARE YOU.

I’ve decided to stop questioning my contributions. I make a difference. And so do you. We get up each day, and we do the thing. And then we do some of it again, and again… We tweak some parts and mess up on others… And then we proceed to do it all over the next day. It is Sisyphus. It is numbing. It is monumental. And it is hard.

It is the bravest contribution ever: The Continued Doing of Life.

(Also: I kind of feel that as a fifty year old woman just existing in this world is Big Time Bravery).

I went on a run this morning and felt energized and exhausted, all at the same time. I felt invincible and Iron Womanish, and then headed to my coffee shop where I tripped over a non-existent something on the floor and totally wiped out. There, I started an article about my faith, and immediately felt imposter syndrome about my lack of faith.

It’s very likely I’ll eat something healthy and all green and crunchy for lunch, but then later I’ll scarf Reese’s because I know my husband bought some and HE HID THEM IN THE HOUSE. (Game on, husband).

Bravery is not one big long Hallelujah Chorus of awesome. At least, not in my case. I just can’t maintain it for that long. I can do bravery in short bursts and then breathe a lot after, inhaling and exhaling through the regular goofy and pain of Dana (also paired with fear, lack of confidence, comparison, sadness… all the icky stuff because human Dana).

Bravery works well on an instagram post. Or a tiktok. It’s cinematic and it’s sexy but it, like sex, it should REALLY NOT go on and on and ON. I mean… that would be… well you know what I mean.

So, take my word for it. We are brave every day. It might be tiny brave, but it counts. Tiny brave counts. It really does!

Finally, to really drive home the fickleness of bravery: Here is a pic of my new glasses. They were a brave choice. I love them, but the guy at Target said, “Cool glasses. You look like Jeffrey Dahmer.” So, you know. Truly, not really the vibe I was going for but #itiswhatitis

Grieving a Career

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So, just so you know, I still miss Steve.

But also? I have also been grieving my career lately, but that’s not nearly as tangible as missing a large, white, purring behemoth of love. However, I figured out, just this morning, that for me the two are kind of connected.

Let me explain.

Here is a quick recap of Dana’s writing life: It actually became a career and then also turned into a speaking thing, and then Covid changed everything, and I decided to leave my publisher, and now… I did stand-up and am occasionally writing articles AND I FINALLY FINISHED THE PROPOSAL, DESPITE MY BRAIN.

Which, in writer-speak means this:

So, none of this seems… grieve-y. Right? These are all good things! These are natural progressions of a writing life! It’s not a big deal!!

But there is some real sadness there too. It feels an awful lot grief. And fear. Mixed together.

So… grear?

You get the idea.

I know I tend to bring Steve into all the things these days, but it’s my blog and I can do what I want. Here’s the deal: I cannot, honestly, see a life without Steve. I realize that makes it sound like he was just my everything and more ‘wind beneath my wingsy’ stuff, but that’s not really what I mean (although it’s up for debate). What I mean is: He provided comfort. Routine. He was ever-present. He was just… with me. He was a comfort-cat. My family? Yes, they are my comfort people and I love them MORE than STEVE, ok? But they also come with needing things and questions and confrontation and talking (so much talking) and with Steve? There was no ask. Just furry being.

And an occasional catnip fix. He wasn’t purrfect.

Come to find out, I kind of regarded my writing success the same way. I had a publisher approach me for my books, for pete’s sake. No agent. Just total pot-o-gold rainbow writing stuff. And The TODAY show CAME TO MY HOUSE (this was not pot-o-gold really it was more like pot-o-anxiety but you know).

And now? I am sending my proposal forth, and starting a whole new blog, and doing STAND UP which is so NOT what I ever ever saw coming. Folks, I realllllly like to see things coming. I plan all the things. I make lists FOR my lists. When I die, Jesus and I are going to have a coffee-date at Kingdom Depot, mainly in the aisle with all the cute planners and washi tape. And yes, that means I am going to PLAN heaven. Don’t judge me.

Along with all the creative new things, there came this uneasy feeling of sadness. I should have expected it, I guess. My new stuff was not offering up the comfort and validation of what I knew before. I’m not even writing the same genre anymore. I’m attempting fiction instead of memoir, which, of course, has a huge learning curve. And this sadness glommed onto all sorts of looming questions: How am I going to manage this? What if it doesn’t work? What if nobody cares?

What if I fail?

That’s a lot of looming.

Because of this, I have mini meltdowns, and I just long for easy. Or to just quit and follow a career path in interpretive dance.

I grieve it.

What does one do with all this? Well, the next logical step for me was to yell at myself. This grief thing? It seems so ungrateful. And negative. And just dumb. Just CARRY ON, Dana.

Yea. Yelling at me to be less me doesn’t work either.

What does work? I lean into story and write a blog post about what I’m feeling. And then hope that it connects with someone. This process is called “Help I’m Sad and Maybe You Have Felt This Way Too-itiveness?” and it has an 97% success rate. I know enough from my 12 step meetings that when we share the grief (however big or small) it helps. So thanks for helping me grieve a bit today, and then hit “publish” and then… go off and do some new things and carry on.

Oh, and also? Did you notice that for me grieving sent me back to my old pattern of blogging? I hadn’t blogged for ages, (I see you, Momsie) and when all this new comfort-zone blasting occured, I thought: “Huh. Maybe I should blog again.” And it has helped. SO much. So, maybe grief is helped by leaning on past things to balance out the future things. Like, when my brother died and I took his old stand-mixer, and anytime I use it I think of him? That kinda thing.

Does this kind of career-grief make sense to you? Or life-change grief? I keep thinking this is sort of what it was like when I got married and moved across the state. It was wonderful. A whole new life with my sweet babboo.

But there was actually some grief there too for my old life, ya know?

Thanks for listening my friends. If you are inclined – share, share away. And keep a lookout for the Pie and Coffee newsletter, where I give specific tips on how to navigate career grief.

Also, would you please consider sharing my newsletter or blog with someone who might need to hear it? There’s all sorts of folks out there who are dealing with stucked-ness (again, super technical term) who might benefit from a creative reset. I would be forever grateful.

And now, keep calm and create on.

Wine and Writing Don’t Mix

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Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer. The story of me and a very large, clunky Remington typewriter is on my first blog, Momsie – the blog where I wrote about momhood, babies, husbands, and pets (Steve. I wrote about Steve). Click on the image below for a blog post from Momsie about Steve’s squeak-purr:

https://momsieblog.com/2017/02/17/weak/

I remember when I first started Momsie – I told my friend Christy that “everyone and their dog has a blog” – but she convinced me that dogs were not really my demographic and that I just needed to focus on Steve because he was a total cash cow.* Thus, Momsie was born.

It was a relief to write. It was easy. The stories were just so plentiful. My kids were great material; they were so cute**, and I could throw my words out there and offer up some laughter for the four or five folks who actually read me.

But also, Momsie was born out of a very real desperation (in my recovery circles some would call it the “gift of desperation”) to handle my new sobriety. I needed something to do. I needed someone to be. The blog saved me. It took my poor, mushy brain that was slowly starting to un-mush (medical terms are my thing) and it soothed it.

At camp, when you take the crumpled old t-shirt that your mom reminded you last minute to toss into the bottom of your backpack, and you rubberband the living daylights out of it and toss it in dye? That’s writing. (Notice how well I’m explaining this? #Pulitzer).

I mean – you have this rumpled, frayed thing, and then you twist it, fiddle with it, not really sure what you’re doing at all or where you’re going with it… And then the dye starts to seep in, slowly, all crazy and winding with rivulets and tributaries of saturation. And the end result? It’s a cacophony of color.

If you haven’t gathered, I totally have all my 70’s tie dye shirts still. They’re stretchy crop tops now, but that’s in style. #influencer

No, I’m not wearing the t-shirts/crop tops anymore. One did fit Steve, but he was so mortified that I forgot to take pictures and this is a tragedy so breathtaking I need to stop writing about it right here.

With Momsie, I wrote because the words just kinda came out of my fingers. My husband bought me a used laptop for my birthday, and then I had someplace mobile for the words to go. I could write at the park. I could write in bed. I could write while Red was trying to learn to use the potty and I had to sit outside the bathroom for hours until my butt fell asleep and I would end up eating all the bribery M and M’s. Pain is a great motivator for writing.

And Momsie was born, and grew and thrived. The rest was history.

Well, no. Actually, it’s not history – it’s my life right now. The words still have to come out of me pretty much every day or my brain goes all wonky. The colors must out, as it were.

There were a bunch of articles that came out in the early 2000’s about how alcohol was good for creativity. This was paired along with the whole “red wine is good for your heart” thing, which was soooooo my thing back when I was drinking. Lookit. I’m drinking four glasses of red wine! YOU KNOW, CUZ IT’S GOOD FOR MY HEART.

Yea. Turns out, the heart thing is not true.

And the whole, “artists need alcohol to create” thing? It’s total crapola.

Our muse is not a bottle. It’s in us.

My colors are completely Dana-Generated. I don’t use anything outside of myself and my own experiences for their saturation. This is what works best for me. Dana-generated colors cause a daily bloom of gratitude. It’s the ultimate “look what I made!” – every day.

Thanks for the listen, and, as always, I’m grateful for you, my dear readers.

Where are the colors in your life?


*cashcat

* *They are still cute.

This is marriage. Episode #228485

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Marriage, ya’ll. It’s a rush, right?

Brian and I have been married now for… a while. I always say we’ve been married for about ten years or so. Brian tells me it’s 16 because math wins, but to me, ten is a nice, round number that sticks with you.

Also, I tend to still think 1990 is like, ten, twelve? Ish? Years ago?? Right????

You get the idea.

This year, our wedding anniversary landed on the world’s hottest day because I am a teacher, and so we had to get married (16 years ago) in July. As all teachers do. And we celebrated it by me doing standup where I roasted Brian for my entire set, and he affably laughed throughout.

Here’s a wedding day picture (from 16 years ago). Brian was totally sunburnt because he went golfing the day prior with his friends while I was running around like crazy trying to make sure we had a wedding. As is the way.

Also I am really fixated on the ceiling?

Initially, for my stand up routine, I had written up a 20 minute set about Steve, the amazing recovery cat. Steve was always a solid source of material as he was a really, really solid cat. Literally. But, you know, Steve is happily lying in the sun somewhere up in heaven and don’t you dare email me about my theology. Cats go to heaven.

Or at least Steve did because he was divine.

Ok, I’ll stop with the puns about Biggie Meows. I really loved that cat though. You know that.

As it is Labor Day weekend, I have spent a large part of it laboring on our house (Laundry. Why is there so much laundry) and trying not to resent the family for it. I work from home which means I try to write and then do laundry in between. But this morning? I actually just made a long list of chores for the boys and left the house. I am currently sipping cold brew and, as always, working on the BIG BOOK PROPOSAL which I swear is almost done.

But the best thing? I gave the husband a kiss and had this conversation:

Me: The boys have a list. Can you make sure they get it done? And by done, like… they do it properly? I’m pretty sure Blonde’s version of mopping the kitchen doesn’t even involve water. Maybe he just hopes it clean, like a mop fairy. *claps hands a la Tinkerbell*

Brian: *totally misses Tinkerbell thing but oh well* Sure. You go write.

He might not be very adept at his Disney metaphors but he is supportive. I make very little cashola in the writing field, folks. I have, like, 7 followers. My “platform” is wobbly and I post funny things on the Tiktoks because they make ME laugh. So, in sum: I am not a big money-maker. Thankfully, I’m pretty sure this was not why Brian married me. As I was a high school English teacher when we met, Brian knew I wasn’t going to be raking in the dough.

But… sometimes this bothers me.

I don’t… contribute, you know? Or, at least I allow the bitchy accountant in my head to try to convince me of this, occasionally.

And then I remember that I am a mom and I contribute a whole heck of a lot to our family, to our lives, and I know that. I KNOW that. But it just is so very nice to have a supportive partner who says things like, “Sure. You go write” no matter what. He has told me that I am talented and funny and once when he was reading one of my articles he even chuckled under his breath which was the biggest compliment ever. If you are a writer, you know the total joy of hearing someone chuckle while they read your stuff. Unless, of course, you write just totally serious or sad stuff. I don’t know what to tell you then.

But I’m a funny lady and I write funny stuff. That chuckle kept me going for days. And I have used the word “stuff” way too many times here. #pulitzer.

BTW: Here is Brian dressed as Joseph-with-glasses for our Christmas church pageant thing. They asked him to be Joseph because he has a beard. But, when I think Joseph, I think Brian. He’s very spiritual.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that may you have a such a person in your life.

We all deserve a Brian.

Steve the Sobriety Cat

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So, Steve died three weeks ago.

And I’m not gonna say “he passed” or “we lost him” because, well, he died and it was just awful.

Is it fair to say that Steve was my soulmate? Perhaps. When I talk this way about him to my husband, Brian gets a bit blinky and tends to sort of clam up, but I think Brian’s OK with it. I have used other terms about Steve around Brian – words like, “he is my everything” and “he’s the wind beneath my wings” and so far Brian has been good about it. I mean, let’s face it, Brian has to be good about it right now because Steve just died, and arguing with me about my grief and affection for the Biggie Paws would a big fat marital no-no.

I miss my sweet Steve so much. I really do. I just have to say it.

I have written about Steve a lot. He has an entire chapter dedicated to him in my first book, Bottled – because Steve helped me get sober. YES he did and don’t argue. If you are in recovery, and you have a sobriety pet, THIS MAKES TOTAL SENSE.

In fact, if you look closely, this website has a whole page dedicated to the deliciousness that was Sir Meows A Lot.

My heart is still grieving and I think it will always. He was just that good of a cat. So, in the style of Judith Viorst (she’s one of my favorite authors ever) – here is:

The Tenth Good Thing About Steve

  1. Steve was a weighted blanket. Anxious? He’d clamber up on you, purring, and weigh you down with girth and love.
  2. Steve had a really big head. And body. All of him, actually. But petting his large, soft noggin was… substantial. Yes, there will be numerous points here that will mention his circumference.
  3. In the morning, when I would head downstairs to get my coffee, my two dogs and Steve would all thump downstairs too. I used to think of it as the “Running of the Pets.” It made a lot of noise and there was some jostling. But Steve always managed to be first. Watching his large white haunches hustle down those stairs always made me smile. Steve did love his brekkie.
  4. You could actually hear Steve jump down from a bed or a perch upstairs if someone was at the door. He was loud. He made himself known. And he needed to say hello.
  5. Steve had a deep love for anyone who had a cat allergy. He would lay on this person (or try to) and look up at him with adoration. “I will change you,” his eyes would say. “Shhhhhhhh, my love. Allergies, shmallergies.” I always kind of judged the ones who would manage to shoo him away (Steve was persistent – usually three attempts were made). Steve and I would make eye contact and I would give a tiny nod. That person was now dead to us.
  6. Steve did not give any f–cks. Ever. About anything.
  7. When Steve was sick a few years ago (he had surgery – it was a lot) I slept with him in the bathroom one night because I didn’t want him to be alone. At one point he reached out his paw and just set it on my face, and I knew he appreciated the company.
  8. Steve often would crawl up on Brian at night. Brian, a man who often has refereed to cats as *rats with more fur* would be hypnotized by Steve’s slow blinks and succumb to scritching him behind his ears for as long as Steve graced him with his presence. If Steve was a cult, then sign me up.
  9. If anyone was ever crying in our house, Steve would show up and slowly climb up on him (Or her. Me, ok? It was often me). His warmth made it better of course, but also his look of, “Brah, why you crying? I am here. It’s chill dude. Life is hard but I am soft.” He was, as I have referred to in my book, the Jeff Spicoli of cats.
I see a resemblance don’t you?

And 10. Steve was, as all pets are, generous with his love, his time, and his softness. All he wanted was food, cuddles, and a sunny spot to sleep, and I shall miss him every day.


*To clarify – my husband is not a monster. Also, rats actually make great pets.

Life is hard. Steve was soft. May we all have a Steve.

Who I was, what happened, and who I am now. With PICTURES!!

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Trying to be brave and posting bare-faced.

So, it’s kind of hard to sum up addiction. Why do some folks get addicted to things… and others don’t?

I have no idea. For many years, when I first got sober, I asked myself, “Why can’t I drink? Why ME?”

Um, because I’m an alcoholic.

Yes, I know it’s circular reasoning, which, if you are a writing teacher is kind of a big no-no. But in this case? I’ll take it. I take “circular reasoning” and I’ll raise you a “Genetics are a part but there’s so much more” and leave it at that.

In the wise words of the epic rock legend, Avril Lavigne, “Why’d you have to make things so complicated?”

Because life. Life tends to be tricky.

So… I decided to share my recovery story with you…

BUT WITH PICTURES!

  1. We begin at the beginning but more like my 20’s.
2. This was a thing with me, and I didn’t really know it was a thing until much later. But I’m pretty sure I had a real issue with depression and anxiety from early on. I just ignored it.
3. I never actually did the splits when depressed. I didn’t do the splits at other times either.
In my life, I don’t do the splits. I have learned that about myself.
4. That’s me on the right. I’m mopping the floor. Generally speaking? I had the cleanest dorm room in the four state area.

And so… I present to you… *(drum roll please)





And wine worked.

Until it didn’t.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story where I get sober. WITH PICTURES!

Safe places

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Welcome to my brain. It’s a little weird in here, but also very kitschy. It’s a New Girl episode where they’re all a lot older and less drinkie. I’d watch it.

Also, my brain today is back in a safe place, so it’s humming with ideas.

I long for spaces that match my insides. If you are a literal person, like my 13-year-old son (aka “the lawyer”), that kind of statement is followed by an “Ew, MOM.”

But I bet some of you understand. I long for spaces that allow me to take a deep breath in, and then out, and feel all *equally pressurized.

Here are some spaces that do NOT help me to feel all equally pressurized:

  1. The vet. More on this later, but I have had wayyyy too many visits to our local vet lately (they are wonderful and lovely and lovING, but still, no no, not my safe place).
  2. That one place in Walmart towards the back where that guy in the red button-down is trying to sell you new cell phone service and NO MATTER how much you focus your eyes straight ahead, he still manages to sidle up and you have to do that awkward slow-walk, but you’re also still moving to show him you have places to BE in the Walmart, and no you don’t need a new cell, but also you don’t want to be mean because he’s just trying to make a living? That place.
  3. Actually, all of Walmart, really.
  4. Any school supplies aisle right now. Even in Target, where the cool school supplies hang out.

Places that help me to feel safe? Well, here’s one of them:

Nice product placement, Dana. Shameless plug.

You might recognize this coffee house – I was here a few weeks ago for my solo writer’s retreat. I’m back just for a few hours of writing.

It’s safe here. My insides match my outsides here.

Other safe places:

  • My front porch
  • The dinner table unless there is a casserole involved. Casseroles are my nemesis.
  • My back stoop, especially if Rey the Good Dog is with me (She’s a leaner. Do any of you have doggos that like to lean on you? It’s very grounding).
  • A church pew
  • Cody, Wyoming (I visited there long ago and I rode a horse named Jumper which was apt. I’m coming back, Jumper. Wait for me).
  • Anyplace accompanied by a good book. I’m reading The Lioness right now and it’s so gooooooood.

These types of places allow me to actively rest. Then, about four minutes later I’ll have a little burst of ideas, which I’ll have to write down (I usually end up texting myself which can be super awkward if I accidentally text Darrel, my pastor. It’s kind of hard to explain a text that says: ANXIETY BIRDS to my pastor. But you know? I’m sure he aimed for understanding. He always does. Especially with me).

Oh, and here’s another safe space: Anywhere Rey naps. Need proof?

VOILA:

I mean, honestly.

Do you have spaces that help you breathe a little easier? Create a little more? Do they help you fill up, overflow, contribute?

I think space is crucial to creativity. And notice? I used this weird term *equally pressurized. I NEVER said my space helps me feel “balanced.” That’s just a term for gymnasts and 20 year olds.

Where are your safe places?

Would you like to get some ideas to help plan your own creative retreat? Click below:

Kittens and fudge and wifi.

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I’m writing this from the fourth coffeehouse in two days. Also there was boba tea in there at some point and a really good burger.

I’m on a writer’s retreat, ya’ll. Sustenance.

There has also been fudge. But only purchased, not consumed. Yet.

Oh and some frozen lemonade thing that really didn’t seem all that lemonadey. I need my lemonade to smack me in the mouth with its tartness. This one just sort of booped me in the nose. It’s ok, lemonade. You be you.

But Dana, you ask. When are you actually writing?

IN BETWEEN, SILLY.

On this retreat I have:

  1. Had a very serious talk with my Calendar. We got eye to eye and I said things like, “Ok, Calendar. Cut it out. I’m in charge. I AM. You’re not the boss of me.
  2. Added about 6 more things to Calendar.
  3. Wrote a blog post and a newsletter.
  4. Finally finished the book synopsis I talk about here.
  5. Worked on chapters 1 and 2. All the while there was a constant soundtrack in my head to the tune of: “What Do You Think You’re Doing, Dana, You Total Fakezoid.” It has a snazzy beat.

I want you to realize, dear reader, that imposter’s syndrome is very common. I think I could seriously win a Pulitzer and I would still be all “It was probably a fluke and someone out there by the name of Dana Bawman is really ticked off that I stole her Pulitzer.”

But here is what I learned while I was here:

  1. Coffeeshops regularly chose really interesting music. I am currently listening to showtunes in Japanese. Thanks Reverie Coffee for the culture. Also, you make a lemon cream croissant that is to die for.
yes my love.

2. If I listened to all the voices in my head I would be home making a blanket fort with my cats and as great as that sounds one cannot achieve your highest potential when that is ALL that you do. Don’t come at me, cats.

3. People are really nice. While here, I have had recommendations for food, walking paths, books, and the best burger. People are interested in what I’m writing and they are all about encouragement. People are just amazing.

4. I will never be as cool as a barista.

Don’t allow your inner voice to shut you down. If it keeps telling you all sorts of negative things? That’s not an inner voice. That’s an inner a$$hole. This sounds really weird and ew and like something from a David Cronenberg movie and I hate his movies.

David, if you’re reading my blog, I’m sorry.

(spoiler alert he’s not reading it)

I will have to say, though: if blanket forts with your cat are your thing? Do it. It does sound kinda cool.

In conclusion, I leave you with a whole heck of a lot of writing yet to do, but also this video of fudge. You’re welcome.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/MtnRDPPGw-0

Stuckedness and Other Technical Terms

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Here are the symptoms of Stuckedness:

  1. Fatigue. A lot of napping. Or dreaming of napping. Drapping, if you will.
  2. Walking aimlessly from room to room.
  3. Clicking aimlessly from project to project.
  4. IG. Tiktok. Facebook for the old folks. Repeat.
  5. Doomscrolling on Twitter (JUST DON’T DO IT. IT NEVER WORKS OUT.)
  6. Feelings of inadequacy paired with constant self-absorption. Tricky.
  7. Masking. Super cheery, “I’m GREAT! How are YOU?” hellos to everyone. This is exhausting.
  8. Emotional eating. Or maybe that was just me?
  9. Persistent thoughts like, “Isn’t there more to life than this?” and “It’s never gonna change.”
  10. Distraction. Constant, annoying, loud, baffling distraction.

Stuckedness sounds an awful lot like depression, doesn’t it?

Stuckedness can affect your work, your relationships, your own mental health. It can tell you that you’re the worst mom, co-worker, friend, artist, *fill in the blank* ever. It is very good at what it does, because it tells you to NOT move and then it makes not moving very, very comfortable.

Feeling stuck sucks.

Remember that 80’s movie The Never Ending Story? Ok, don’t worry, I’m not going to show you ANY images of Artax, because if you know, you know. You simply cannot bear to look at poor Artax drowning in the Swamp of Sadness, and I can’t afford to put you into therapy, so we’re just gonna gently remember… But also know that ARTAX COMES BACK AT THE END.

If you have dealt with Stuckedness, you really understand Artax. So, my analogy stands, but let’s move on before you get any more trauma. (He comes BACK, ok? Remember that!!)

That’s Stuckedness. It surrounds and drowns and wants you to give up. And any sort of movement just seems so hard. I’d rather just wrap up in a blanket and watch Nailed It on Netflix for four years, thank you.

And I just about did. I mean, two years ago I settled IN to the Stuckedness, ya’ll. My couch had a permanent outline of me and my dog in it. Any spare moment alone? I was stuck. Usually with a bag of chips so you know. Carbs.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I want you to understand that this *waves hands around* whole website/newsletter thing is not another hustle. It’s not going to sell you stuff. I don’t foresee a baseball hat with “Stuckedness” on it in the future. Down the road, there might be workshops, or classes, because that’s what I do anyhow (I’m still a teacher. I have been for over twenty years. Currently I teach writing at the local college).

I have been there, and I got out, and I want to help.

Also, all this stuff about sharing my story? It’s purely selfish. This keeps me sober and it makes my heart happy, so really, it’s all about me. Ask my husband. Nothing lines up with my brand more than, “Really, it’s all about me.” Perhaps I should stick THAT on a t-shirt and sell it.

So, here’s one practical giveaway to fight the Stuck:

Music. I went over to the youtubes, and I searched “Waves, music, focus, happy” and about fourteen kajillion options came up. I clicked the first one. Also, I searched: “Birdsong” and another majillion options tweeted at me. So, between the beach and the birdies, I felt like my soul had a soundtrack. I can tell you all about binaural beats and the “happiness frequency” but I just started with birdies. I didn’t want lyrics or music that is current – even my beloved ELO was out. This stuff was simple, serene, and very very easy to work to without distraction. And it helped. Try it! Here’s one of my favorites:

Carry on, friends. And eat dessert first.