she's alive, ok ???
and less dead inside too, a bonus!
First things first. A public apology.
Is she going to talk about how she hasn’t written in a while and make excuses while also shame herself? Aw, you guys know me so well!
But I’ve been extra MIA lately. For those of you who have reached out with concern, know that I have not been kidnapped by a rag tag gang of whippersnappers, I’ve just been, like, doing stuff.
Okay, so the apology: a few posts into this Public Diary for an Online Oversharer known as My Substack, I took a vow to myself that I would use this platform to hold myself accountable to writing regularly, and to me that meant posting something new at least once a month IF NOT TWICE. And by “vow” I mean I sort of just declared it one day, and by declared I mean I sort of mumbled it, and by mumbled I mean I thought it in my head, and by in my head I mean it was said in a dream by my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Whitesell who had sparkly skin and Prince and Fletcher were also there because they were fighting for my love, all taking place in my high school’s cafeteria (go Mustangs!) I’m pretty sure the vow happened somewhere in there.
And listen, I still have not kept my word, and I’m sorry! Shame me in the comments, I deserve it (but do it the correct way, with at least 2-5 compliments included).
But I can explain myself. My excuse this time isn’t that I’ve been deeply engrossed in novel rewrites. Lately, I’ve barely written a word. Not even journaled. I have a serious issue with self discipline, and also journaling is for dweebs!
I’m so, so good at doing the dishes and brushing my teeth every night, I dot on my tretinoin a few times a week, and the NYT word games get knocked out every morning. But I’m very, very bad at carving out and sticking to a window of time for working towards actual goals.
When I was a kid, it seemed like every fraction of time during the school year was dedicated towards something, and the fear of being bad at any of those somethings, or god forbid, getting a B, kept me on track. But now that I’m an adult, and, while still busy, have a wider range of spare time, I can’t seem to put it towards anything that contributes to long term success or satisfaction. Because if I do go buck wild and sleep in an extra hour thus losing the block I scheduled to write, no one’s there to yell at me or lower my grade. Life just goes on. There’s no real deadline, not really, despite my efforts to make up ones to raise the stakes. Plus, I haven’t experienced what success looks like with this, so to my brain, there’s nothing to lose.
We obviously have to spin out of that, because woof, but I haven’t quite figured out how. Especially now that there’s a new wrench in the works.
Which is…I’m no longer single.
…
That was extra space for the reader to drop their jaw. I think I’m still picking mine back up.
It’s new, so I’m not going to discuss it in egregious detail. But for the first time in what, almost four years (???), I am in a relationship. And in classic bisexual fashion, it’s with a straight man. Don’t blame me, it’s in our DNA and it can’t be helped!
Over the last two-ish months, I’ve been in romantic bliss, which, in addition to the warmer weather and all my friends being born in the spring, has taken up more space in my calendar. Here’s the thing though; there’s still been ample time for me to write. And in that time, I’ve been procrastinating like a motherfucker. Cleaning, errands, scrolling, picking up books and putting them back down, scrolling, watching acclaimed long-running television series for the first time, ranting about how we must bring back twenty-two episodes a season culture, and scrolling. Nothing new there.
But, pray tell, isn’t there still the urge to overshare?? Of course. There never won’t be. Writing that sentence gave me a stroke.
This blossoming, hopeful, adorable new thing in my life has gotten me thinking about this substack, which over the last year and a half has served as an outlet for my frustrations about writing (and not writing) as well as a whirlpool that I’ve been able to (quite repetitively) toss in all my emotional baggage; the heartbreaks, the unrequited crushes, the yearning, the bad dates.
And now, I’m like, what, happy? There’s this person with beautiful eyes who I’m really into who’s also really into me and communicates that with zero inhibitions and our zodiac signs are compatible? How the fuck do I write about being miserable now?
Of course I’ve experienced a similar speed bump with the other art form I’ve attempted to commodify, acting. It goes a little like this, jump in if you know it:
What if I have more talent when I’m damaged?
What if the work is more exciting when I’m sporting some scars?
What if the more I’m bleeding, the better I get?
That was a common thought that begun in my teens, which was probably just a coping mechanism for when a crush rejected me. What fun it was for that fourteen-year-old braced-up girl who couldn’t figure out concealer to discover that pain can be turned into something people will clap for.
Buuuut I’d like to think I’ve grown and become more evolved since then. Now, I can absolutely separate my personal life from the art. Sure I can. EASY PEASY!!
Maybe this means for you, precious readers, that a Suzy Weller Original won’t always elicit pity or certain musings like maybe bimonthly therapy sessions is too few for this lil firecracker. Or, if you were into the miserable stuff, don’t worry, there’s still plenty of crap in my life worth shitting on for fun. Basically, whatever you want to read I will write, because I am desperate for that sweet, sweet approval, baby!
But to just throw in something pathetic at the end here for those of you who enjoy suffering, the morning after this for-now-unnamed-wonderful-man and I became official, I got conjunctivitis, which hurt like a son of a bacterial bitch.
^what I sent my parents after a photo of my boyfriend, after which Mom said, “thanks for the pics!”