I intend to do this weekly. It seems I’ve had a hard time of it lately. This is only partially due to the fact that I feel I have very little to say. This is the condition of winter. Everything slows. Time seems to stop. Days become weeks become months of cold, the kind which sends us burrowing into every scrap of warmth we can find.

Spring comes. It’s earlier, this year. Mid-February sees things I used to wait for until the latter half of March. I don’t know if it’s the weather, or the light, or if the only thing changing is me.

I slowed considerably in my work between the holidays. There was a great push in January, but in spite of my productivity (or perhaps because of it) I fell into a kind of cessation that has now spanned three weeks. I’m crawling out of that burrow, but how strange to find myself a creature which hibernates.

A friend of mine released a book. With no advertisement, no ARCs, no ads, she had a successful launch based on nothing more than the draw of her own ideas. I’m struggling, I think, with the discrepancy between art and commerce. I want to make things that are beautiful. I want to say something that matters. I want to make a living. I don’t know how to do it all. It seems that there are others who can make it happen for themselves, and yet for some reason the idea that it could happen for me is unbelievable.

I hate to confess that I’m struggling. I hate anything that contains even a whiff of vulnerability, which probably doesn’t make for good art. I want more than I think I’m allowed to have. I want more than I think I’m allowed to want. I’m acutely aware of how every element of my life interconnects in the webbed gray matter of my mind. Sometimes I feel mad. Mostly, I think I just need to go outside more and embrace spring.

All of this is to say I’m working again, although slowly, and writing a little bit of commercial work, and writing a little bit of artistic work, and worrying very much about both of them. I have more ideas than I’ll ever be able to efficiently execute, and yet I’m always still worrying that I won’t be able to come up with a new idea ever again.

If anything, I’m feeling the need to purge that which overburdens me. I’m still here, though. Still crawling along. I’ve seen how much a life can change in a year. I’m hoping to keep the ship right, to change for the better.

Much love,

BH ❤