*blows off profuse layer of dust*

Let’s get down to business.

Peak is over. Second peak has begun. Unlike second breakfast, it will be neither delicious nor enjoyable. Some things can’t be helped. I would like to take more time to rest as I did in late 2021 but I fear that if I delay any longer I’ll never want to start back up. Downtime is necessary. However, too much is worse than none at all.

To kick off 2022, I am going to pin down a lot of thoughts and realizations that have been swirling about my brain, nagging me for the attention necessary to formulate them into coherence. 

Without further ado, I present to you The Good, The Bad, and The Future. 

The Good

Not all of 2021 was bad! Despite the fact that the last few years have been a diaper bomb cranked up to 11, I have experienced one of the watershed moments of my life amongst the stink. It is something that makes me grateful every single day that I live in this wonderful (and terrible) era of scientific advancement. 

What did I receive you ask?

I have been given a neurochemical medication which actually works.

For those who suffer from long-term chemical imbalance as I have, finding medication which effectively addresses your issues is a rare thing. Alarmingly often you are taking medications which work, kind of, for some of your more severe symptoms. Those medications, in turn, bring their own host of side-effects which can often mask their ‘benefits’ to the point that you no longer bother trying to take them. Instead, you rely upon the years of networking and hobbled together self-care that you’ve formed over two decades. 

Why yes, I do speak from experience Oh Observant Reader. 

Nothing could have prepared me for how incredibly effective this newest medication has been. 

Finding one that works this well? It is virtually unheard of. I cried unto the heavens for help and they sent me a freaking unicorn to speed me along my way.

It has made a night and day difference in my life. I’m not the only one saying that: Friends, family, co-workers, tiny human, etc. Everyone who knew me pre-medicine and everyone who has caught up with me post-medicine has commented profusely on the radical (and beneficial!) changes that have come along with it. It’s not all gravy in the navy; side effects of such medications tend to be the equal of their benefits. Mine is proving no exception.

As I famously put it to my dear friend Brian, however, that is akin to complaining about some dings in the bumper on the Ferrari that life just drove onto your driveway and, with a flourish, flipped you the keys for it before walking off throwing you a peace sign. Sure. They are dents. But come the heck on. It’s a freakin ferrari. Make your peace with the occasional rust mark and don’t look a gift Ferrari on the bumper. 

There have been other boons, but if I’m being radically honest, they are extensions of the godsend that is the medication I am now imbibing on the regular. Improved home-life? It’s because I’m not a moody grizzly bear erry day. Only in the morning. Which, I have been led to believe, makes me endearing somehow instead of grumpy. Whatever. Again, I shall not look the gift Ferrari on the bumper. Callbacks! Comedy!

I digress. There are other things. The benefits at work. The fact that everyone for whom I am responsible now looks to me for leadership and expresses, of their own volition, the belief that I would be good at the job and am well suited to the responsibilities I would inherit along with the vest.

There exist no words which will allow me to express how joyous it makes me to hear those whose jobs I am responsible for state, in plain language, that they want me to be promoted and continue to help them make the most of their time at work. I cannot condense the sum of my life into mere words. The scorn, the shame, the constant state of self-deprication which I live in. All of it magnified across thirty seven years of living and losing, of trying and failing, and always coming up short of the promise that so many people have felt in and for me. Some days, most days, it feels like my only real skill in this life is disappointing those whose trust has been placed in me.

And yet, not this year, not this time. Not in this moment, not under this corrugated roof.

Here I am triumphant. Here I am respected. It is not respect freely given, either. It is respect that has been earned, one step, one question, one kind word, and one listening ear at a time. I am proud that I walked through all the trials and tribulations of my life and refused to bow before them. I still joke around, offer up terrible dad puns, and genuinely care about those I work with and work for.

It is a joy to watch myself grow into the man I have always wished to be. I am certain my mother would be proud of this man, too.

The Bad

I didn’t do a good job of being an author in 2021. 

I wrote, sort of. I promoted myself. Kind of. Mostly, I just sat around and played too many video games. 

Yes. I know there’s still a pandemic on. Yes, I know that I’m dealing with the weaponized Facism of one of our two political parties. 

I still didn’t do a good job of being an author. 

I am a firm believer in individual agency and stewardship. Radical agency was how I managed to get 100 pounds to leave and stay gone. I’m not allowed to have excuses, even legitimate ones. So, when the time comes to do some introspection, I need to accept that I’ve fallen short. 

There exists within me no need for self-aggrandizement. I don’t care for awards, ceremonies, birthdays, or even to have my accomplishments lauded by others. Eye contact and a nod of recognition or a genuine smile of greeting are all the acknowledgements that I crave.

That, as it turns out, is a huge issue. 

Being an author requires such spotlight-seeking. I have allowed my own tendencies and prejudices to keep me from seeing the truth: I can’t expect people to read my work if all I do is post it to Twitter.

That does barely anything at all. 

I’ve focused myself too narrowly upon it. Considering it, and the subsequent hashtag groups and opportunities to go viral, as the only way to advance my career. I could not be more wrong. 

It’s an easy mistake to make. Social media has come to occupy an oversized place in our lives, leveraging our basic need to communicate with one another and weaponizing our tendencies with predatory algorithms to mold us into addicts who crave the empty recognition and phantom sense of momentum offered on such platforms. 

It’s even infected the publishing world, which often times will refuse an author based on no other metric than a low follower count. 

Yet time and again we are shown that this oversized belief in the importance of social media as a promotion platform is wrong. One in hundreds of clicks on a link will lead to a sale. That’s not a good ratio. I guess I had considered that I would reach some place where inertia would begin to lead me towards success.

Instead it has left me chasing a ghost, wasting time I don’t have on incorrect assumptions and assertions. 

What I need to do is focus on finishing the myriad projects I’ve been working on. What I need to do is have a completed item in my hands, then go from hell to breakfast promoting it on every single axis I can find. 

Podcasts, book bloggers, pre-releases on Amazon, and perhaps most importantly in conventions. 

Yes, there is still a pandemic. However, it is one that is reaching a stabilized endemic stage. With the use of an N-95 mask and some diligence on my part, I should be able to attend a convention safely now. The fear of having another episode of pericarditis lead to a premature death has kept me on the sidelines for long enough. 

2022 is the year where I am going to finally approach my writing as more than a quirky hobby. 

The Future

I can’t wallow in the past or rest upon my laurels any longer. I want to be an author, and come hell or high water I’m going to start acting like it. 

To that end, I am going to start accumulating the most important thing required to be an author: Money. 

I am staring down the barrel of a promotion at work that, if successful, could more than double my pay. In certain circumstances, it could even triple it. 

I need this, and not just to be an author. I need this to stabilize my home life. I need this to bring some measure of future planning to my life. I need this because I have come to the shattering realization that being an author, and nothing but an author, is going to be the work of my lifetime. 

In all honesty, it is probably going to be the only way I’ll get to retire. Unless I am extremely lucky with my first few novellas, there’s not really any chance that I’ll make enough from writing to justify doing it full time. 

That thought galls me. It fills my heart and my head with anger. The reality of it is all around me, however. I see too many people far more gifted than I at writing struggle mightily to even put bread on their table. 

It’s not right. It’s not fair. But it is reality. Whether I find such a reality just is completely beside the point. When it’s raining, you either have an umbrella or you get wet. When currency is the most important factor in being a successful author, you go acquire currency. 

Fair is for children and the afterlife. We don’t get to choose the times we live in. We simply have to play the hand that fate deals us with all the cunning and panache that we can muster and hope it all works out in the end.

To that end, I have set myself my first actual, honest-to-god release schedule. I have already booked appointments with both the editor and lettering artist / book organizer. I have the artwork already prepped, and I’ve begun making arrangements to start touring the convention scene. 

I will approach these things the same way I do with my work. The same way I have done with my health. The same way I do with so many other things in my life; I will simply be stubborn at them until they throw up their hands in defeat. Is that the smart path? Absolutely not. Is that the way I do literally everything in my life? Much to my consternation and shame, yes. Yes it is. 

The results are worth it, but ye gods the sheer heat of embarrassment at having to use my thick skull to batter down one wall after the other could melt a glacier. 

Those are the only real goals I have this year. My goals for my weight are as simple as they are profoundly difficult: maintain what I have gained. It’s a lot of work. It’ll always be a lot of work. I’ve come to find in the last few years that I am the equal of those tasks. That’s been a very pleasant thing to realize. 

So here’s to the good and the bad. May the best of our past be the worst of our future. 

Futurefully,

The Unsheathed Quill