giving away handshakes like candy
On my morning walk, my brain ran up and down my book release to-do list. When I sat down for a good ol’ spooky season tradition to watch Terrifier this afternoon, I was speaking with my artists. And tonight, I’m sitting here, watching the Great British Bake Off (what season are we on now? I could easily check… but I won’t), and I can’t help but fiddle with my writing.
My therapist has been trying to convince me to slow down. It’s been a recurring theme in our sessions lately - that, and bereavement, though that’s a topic for another day. I feel like my life is spent under the glow of a screen these days. The constant clacking rhythm of keys, whether it be transcription work during the day or pulling words out of the void at night, makes rest feel like an unreachable luxury. The keys drown out the things I don’t want to think about. They become almost like footfalls, a drumbeat that keeps me one step ahead of the demons that tell me, “You’re not getting any younger. If you’re going to do this ‘writing’ thing, you better get your ass in gear. Get serious.”
I try to tell myself that I’m already serious, but that bitch never listens.
But back to the Bake Off. Do you guys remember when the Hollywood handshake used to be a big deal? He’d reach across that gingham altar and it would be a huge fucking thing because they were rare. You really had to knock his socks off to get one.
Now, those shits are everywhere.
Is the baking better? I don’t think so. Is Paul getting soft? I don’t think that either, because I no more think he’s making handshake decisions anymore than I believe that the Hollywood we see on screen isn’t meticulously curated. But I know I don’t give a shit anymore. Like, at all. That Hollywood handshake used to mean something, but now I feel like they need to make participation trophies to give out along with them. Fucking candy thrown out at a festival - you get a piece just for showing up.
My writing’s starting to feel like that a little bit, too. I’m letting myself get overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of crafting a fantasy world out of my ass and taking on releasing this series that has sat in my drafts and my heart for ten years… It feels like I’m churning out words like bakers in the tent, desperate for approval. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing that what I had written was worthy of being called done. Now, though? Sometimes it feels like I’m handing out handshakes to myself just for finishing another day, rushing through drafts, hoping I’ll find the spark somewhere along the way. But where's the satisfaction in that?
And I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining! Because I love this. It is all I ever wanted. I was the preteen sitting in the Computer Room at her house, clacking away on those keys, writing short stories. When I was a little girl begging my family for “blank books” so I could write gods know what in them. All I ever wanted was to be Chris Wooding. To be Stephen King. To be Margaret Atwood.
But now I’m forgetting what it feels like to savor the writing, losing the joy to the shuffle, the same way Paul’s handshakes stopped meaning a thing over time. As I wait to hear back from my editor, I find myself thinking that perhaps I do need to put it all down, if only until I hear back from her, and allow my brain that time to find the joy again.
Don’t you hate when your therapist is right?
(Also Nelly is my queen and I will PITCH A FIT if she doesn’t win. Her vibes alone should carry her to the finale on the wings of an angel.)