scrubjayspeaks: close-up photograph of radio tuner dial (tune in)
This got slightly far afield for a Done This Week post, so I popped it out into its own.

I’m going through one of my phases where I want to rewrite my internet usage and free time habits. (I suspect this happens every fall, though I can’t say for sure. I know I want to clean every November at this point, so it seems like this would track as well.) I feel like I’m missing out on things I like that are more nourishing (and less doom scroll-ish):

Various writers who blog regularly. The assorted Patreons I support but never actually look at the patron-exclusive content for. Books of various stripes. Fanfic longer than a few thousand words that I burn through while getting ready for work in the morning and in the car before I walk in, trying to fortify myself with something sweet. Shows, old or new, because I’m at the point where I can’t even bring myself to rewatch safe favorites.

Those are also things that require a little more brain power from me, though. Or will engage my emotions (other than existential dread) in ways that feel big and threatening. The sort of thing that I tell myself I need to be “in the mood” for. Or that feel like I need to consume them “properly,” rather than in bits and pieces, catch as catch can, and somehow the proper moment never materializes.

If I were avoiding all those things because I was deeply embedded in a project of my own, that would be fine. Can’t read on my work breaks because I’m trying to get something written for the day’s Whumptober prompt? Phenomenal! This ain’t that. I’m just...picking the low-hanging media fruit. Whatever anodyne thing distracts my brain in the quiet in-between moments. Just noise.

Why is the default always to choose numbness? It’s not even indulging in comfort--current event podcasts are not comforting--but the security of only listening to the bad news I already know. Is it any surprise, then, that each night I need to (re)read the most indulgent fic I can to unwind? Which is no bad thing, as far as I’m concerned, in its own right. But maybe I should find a way of living that doesn’t involve the psychological equivalent of shocking myself into a stupor with tasers and then whimpering in a corner until I can bear to do it again. That doesn’t seem...beneficial. To me.

Sometimes, I get kind of panicky about the latest cycle of death knells about tumblr. It is, after all, my main social media, my main fandom platform, and my main access point to queer community. But then I also sometimes think--am I having a good time right now? Or am I mostly watching intracommunity drama play out and calling it connection, interspersed with cat photos, out-of-context quotes, and artwork of staggering beauty? What impulse am I actually satisfying right now?

Sometimes, I want to disappear back into lurkerdom and not engage with anything, just silently consume. Sometimes, I want to run off into the wilds and never touch the internet again. Sometimes, I want to get so involved that all my free time is spent responding to messages and writing to prompts.

There’s probably some healthy set of habits that actually lets me enjoy the benefits of all those options, albeit in sequence, rather than simultaneously. I guess I’m still just chasing after whatever that looks like.
scrubjayspeaks: photo of a toddler holding an orange tabby cat (baby Joyce)
So I'm working on this week's shabby recap, and it's the start of something heavy. And it kicked off some thoughts related to recent posts about anti-trans bathroom bills. And I spent a bunch of time on tumblr trying to track down a post, which only succeeded in finding me a bunch of unrelated sadnesses. Like, multiplying-like-tribbles sadnesses.

So I have managed to burn myself out on Bad Feels for the evening.

There is absolutely no point to this post. I just really want to go read fluff fic for a while, until the world stops seeming so awful.

Ten Years

May. 6th, 2019 10:49 am
scrubjayspeaks: photo of a toddler holding an orange tabby cat (baby Joyce)
I am informed by my byzantine and eccentric personal calendar that today marks ten years since I made my first fiction sale. I am having some kind of emotion about this!

...oh, I'm supposed to identify that emotion? Nope, sorry, no idea!

It was a bisexual threesome romance set in a traveling carnival in a largely unspecified fantasy world. I was too scared to write any explicit scenes. It has some vaguely cryptozoological ideas in it and a light con job of sorts. I think (because I have not reread it in ten years, so who can remember?) it ended with the timid third leaving his conventional life of expectations behind to run away, not so much on a whim as on a hope. There was some weird kink hinted at, and there was an attempt (however imperfect) at diversity in the characters.

So there's some continuity in my life, that's for sure.

My god, I was twenty-three once? How is that possible?
scrubjayspeaks: photo of strawberry-stuffed mochi (daifuku)
I happened to look over at a printout I have hanging in my office today, and I noticed that I printed it on this date in 2016. This would not be interesting in and of itself. But I printed this out because it is the best comment I have ever gotten on anything I have ever made in any format. I keep it on my wall to remind me of why making things and putting them out into the world is worthwhile.

It's just that it took me a minute to calculate that it is, indeed, now 2019. Which means that printed comment is three years old. That is, not coincidentally, just about how long I have been at my (disastrous) day job.

It's not that I haven't gotten other comments in those three years. It's not that I haven't made things and put them into the world in those three years. It's just that it feels like three years was a lifetime ago, and I have no sense of where all that time went. What I did with it. What it was good for.

Time is always a difficult subject for me. Sometimes, like this, it comes up and punches me square in the nose with a lot of emotions. Today, they are not good emotions.

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