Gaslight yourself this winter
All the cool kids are doing it.
All the while, I’ll await my armored fate with a smile
Still wanna try, still believe in good days
I wanted to start this with a reflection on the word “fate”—the images it conjures, the feeling of it closing around your neck like a chain or a vice, the exhaustion and fear and pure rage that come from realizing your fate is both in, and out of, your control.
Except frankly, I can’t dwell on that for too long these days.
So instead, presenting…my January.
All month, I’ve listened to the same three songs from SZA’s SOS on my morning walks. I see the same brownstone stoops, the same naked trees, the same flocks of round little sparrows, and the same revolving cast of characters: the baristas at my local coffee shop who say, “Oh, mixing it up!” when I order a hot dirty chai latte instead of my regular iced one; and Michael Cera, whom I’ve walked past three times now.
I haven’t changed my route in a while. But there are three Little Free Libraries nearby that I can’t bring myself to skip, even for one day. Most of the time, I don’t find anything worthwhile to take home.
Sometimes I do.
It should be no surprise (especially to my friends) that I think Early Irish Myths and Sagas was fated to find me. If books can be fated to find anyone.
The stories are ancient. Wonderfully fantastical, full of deadly rivalries and lovers who turn into swans. They make me ache. I know that sounds ridiculous. But despite all odds—conquest, prejudice, religious upheaval, fire, forgotten memories, centuries of time and happenstance—these stories still reach out to us.
Tucked into a small box on the sidewalk, water-stained and yellowed and crackly, they still reached out to me.
Quite the find before you’ve had your morning coffee. At least I think so.
Many of my days this month haven’t been so magical. But I’ll be damned if I can’t gaslight myself into thinking they all were.
So I bought a calendar, and in it I write only the events I’m looking forward to. Small victories I’m proud of. Time spent with friends. Just good days.
A day of high-brow culture at the Guggenheim quickly deteriorated into a wine-soaked game night. Asterisks for yoga; Rs for running from the zombie apocalypse, accompanied by 2010s throwback hits. The Bachelor premiered, which I wrote on the wrong date (and yes, it’s a show any self-respecting intellectual should feel proud to watch). I wrote about Nosferatu and sex, my two favorite subjects. I made a collage.
And yesterday, I hit 10,000 words on my Novel-Before-I-Turn-30.
I am sooo normal about entering a new decade in six months, guys. So normal that I’m actually pursuing my lifelong dream of writing a novel.
No but actually, I read this tweet and it completely rewired my brain, my confidence in my writing, my motivation level, and my ability to withstand the cruel ravages of perfectionism:
I’m sure I’ll talk more about NBIT30 in future installments. For now, I’m shy.
Just know that my trick, when I’m feeling stuck, is to skip ahead to a smut scene.
So…that’s my January. It’s felt like years. I wonder what I’ll miss about it. I wonder how I’ll feel, flipping through the calendar at the end of the year and remembering all these little moments.
February will be 15,000 more words in NBIT30. A spa day at Bathhouse. My parents’ new dog. A Faroese art pop concert with an ethereal metal opener. More runs, more yoga, more breathing. Some birthdays, a poetry reading, Galentine’s.
Good days.
And you know, now that I think about it…I did win Life this month.
