Stacking my failures
Playing Judgment Jenga
I spent last week punching myself in the face.
I struggled to do any writing in my current project and I considered giving up after reaching almost 50,000 words (close to 200 pages in my document). I made the tough choice to set aside my goal to publish my next novel this fall, putting the cover design and copy edits on hold. I had a potential client tell me she was “disappointed” with my pricing and wished we could have done business together. I noticed that Indigo stock was much lower than it was the week before and I started to panic about returns (if you need a reminder why, read this). Nothing I was doing to boost sales of Katya was working. I felt like I lost the plot. Everything that happened, I took as a failure.
This is not who I am. I am an optimist. You can apply every cliché to me: a glass half full person, the one who sees that every cloud has a silver lining, the woman who knows when one door closes, another one opens, etc., ad infinitum. Last week, though, I struggled to pull myself out of this dark quicksand. All my fellow GenXers know this feeling:
I’m sorry to trigger your Artax in the Swamp of Sadness trauma, but it’s an accurate representation of my emotional state.
I spent a lot of time last week stacking my failures. It’s easy to do when I slip into darkness. The more time I spend in that hole, the better I get at playing Judgement Jenga. Every turn leads to a collapse.
A stubbed toe leads to me debasing myself for being so clumsy, so chunky, so lazy.
A cancelled job has me wondering if I’m being replaced by someone cheaper, or better, or faster.
A blinking cursor serves as a reprimand that if I’m not writing, I’m not thriving, and this new project is probably shit anyways so just stop.
I hate myself when I’m in this state. I like happy and sunny and sparkly. How do I find my way back to that?
Acceptance.
I let the negative have its way for a while. I don’t unpack every perceived failure or analyze it for opportunities for improvement. I let it be ugly and painful and gross. I eat the chips, close the document, feel the grief, stew in the muddy swamp of my own making. Eventually, I will look around and start to see where I can make a difference, where I can change the narrative. I search for small victories that have nothing to do with writing, or book sales, or earning a living. Those have meaning, too.
I finished putting together the travel journal from our trip to Japan.
I built the Pusu Pusu pagoda kit that has been sitting on my desk for five weeks.
I created a fun carousel of images for Katya Noskov’s Last Shot.
And you know what? By the time Saturday rolled around, I was feeling better. Sunny skies were here again.
I peeped my book on a content creator’s thread.
I stumbled onto a writing retreat that scares the crap out of me and started the application process. I finished Abby Jimenez's Just for the Summer and remembered how good her writing makes me feel (she is the QUEEN of dialogue IMO). I began building a pile of clothing that are too big for me now that I’ve lost some weight and felt the thrill of victory.
We all have darkness inside. It’s okay to let it loose now and then. It feels like unbuttoning your jeans after a big, satisfying meal: a little bit of relief mixed in with guilt. Let the gloom bloat. This too shall pass (Sorry. I couldn't help myself).
Search for the small wins. Clean out the junk drawer. Pull some weeds. Pay for the people in line behind you in the drive through. Finish a fun project - in whole or in part. Meet a colleague for coffee (hi, Judith 👋).
Above all, I remember that these feelings are temporary for me. I am grateful for that. I always find my way out of the swamp.
xo Dana
What I’m reading
I’m skipping it this week, because this awesome shit happened on Saturday while I was signing books at Indigo.
👋😊