The weather in Las Vegas hasn’t been magical lately.
The winds bluster against my house and whistle through the windowpanes. They threaten to lift my house from its foundation and blow it to a strange land. I’d much rather have the snow that a close friend of mine in Georgia is experiencing. In the videos she sends me, she timidly peers out of her apartment window and, later, steps outside, the world blanketed in freshly fallen snow. Baby blues, blood reds, and pine greens peek out, hinting at the hidden world below.
Last month, after a hiatus from constant writing and freelance work, I realized that I am my own worst enemy. My drive and ambition get in the way of me taking time for myself. So does the need to produce and keep up and not be forgotten.
When I work too much, I think about Coraline and the movie’s titular character. Specifically, I think about how Coraline’s parents were so caught up in their writing projects that they never noticed their child was sneaking off to another world and that Other Mother was trying to replace her with a button-eyed doll.
I imagine Coraline and then immediately abandon my projects for the day to play with my children.
I’ve seen quite a few posts on Twitter where people are listing their accomplishments from the past decade. It’s been fascinating to see the spectrum of life unfold in so many varied yet parallel forms. Burials and births. First publications and a lack of creativity. Moving and staying rooted.
It’s been a minute since I’ve blogged. I’m not even sure I’ve written anything here that was purely me and not a creative work or guest blog. (There was a time when my idea of blogging meant rants about 2 Chainz and watermelon and annoying houseguests and bad fashion—all of which are on now-defunct websites.)