Vellichor Ink

The beginning of this isn’t all sunshine and roses…but keep going. It gets better–I promise!

Sometimes I wonder what’s the point of it all. All the time and effort and work and blood, sweat, and tears and… for what? Paltry sales and mistake after mistake after mistake. Some glaringly obvious mistakes that should have been caught WAY before they were actually caught. Some not so obvious ones that are just filed away as more lessons learned. But I find myself tiring of learning lessons that should have been learnt long before I set out to do this whole indie author thing. I feel like I’m just one, giant, walking, talking cautionary tale. 

I have wanted to be an author ever since I can remember. I’ve written stories and poetry ever since I could hold a pencil. I loved the writing tests in school—it was the one time that I felt confident and sure of myself in any sort of testing situation. I spent the summer between fifth and sixth grade taking writing classes from a local newspaper journalist. It has just always been there. Always. Half thought out plots scribbled in journals or on scrap pieces of paper. Notes on my notes app tucked away after inspiration hit on a trip or after a dream I couldn’t forget. Countless books devoured, words taking up space in my heart and mind, stamping themselves on my soul for me to use later. 

And yet, I am constantly second guessing myself and whether or not this is the right path. Am I good enough? Are my words worth reading? Should I go back to school and relearn all the proper ways to tell a story? Should I pack it in and give up? Should I just write to write and stop the publishing thing? So many questions and doubts swirl around and I know I should stop them. I should practice what I preach to the fourteen year old and stop with the negative self-talk, but I am finding it harder and harder to do so. 

I keep saying it but the last two years have been the hardest of our lives. I was saying some of the hardest but as we creep up to another holiday season I am realizing that the hard hasn’t let up for two years. It continues to rage at us, battering the windows we’ve closed tight to try and get a hold on the storm that seems to just follow us around. So I think it’s safe to say they have been the hardest. And I am exhausted. Exhausted with feeling like a shell of myself. Exhausted with constantly fighting. With constantly explaining myself and never feeling heard or seen. Exhausted with constantly trying and failing, flailing and floundering. Exhausted with not recognizing myself in the mirror. Exhausted with trying to find my footing on an ever-shifting plane. Exhausted with putting on a brave face and pretending everything is all right when everything feels like a torrent, swirling around us with no clear way to settle it down and grasp hold of something still. Solid. Recognizable. 

I know one day we’ll look back on this time and let out a breath and say, wow, we really went through it, didn’t we? But right now, in the thick of going through it, it feels never ending. It feels huge and looming and overwhelming, and I cant think of ways to quiet the noise or any other way to batten down the hatches. 

One of my friends, someone new who has never seen me at my best, but has decided I am, somehow, worth sticking it out through my worst, told me that I will find my joy again. And to just keep at it. I hope she’s right. I feel like I’ve had little glimmers and moments of joy in the last two years, but they are fleeting. I’d love nothing more than to sit in my joy, firmly and confidently. Reverently. Hopefully. I am trying. I am fighting tooth and nail to get, if not back to who I was, then to find this new, battle worn version of me who doesn’t feel like a burden. Or a chaotic mess. Who feels true and right and confident and held. 

If you’ve made it this far in this mess of emotions that I don’t know for how long I’ll leave out in the world, then send up a happy thought and some positive energy our way— we could use all the help we can get and I would so greatly appreciate it. If you know us in real life and have witnessed this insane last few years and have made the choice to hang around, thank you for sticking it out. One day we’ll be settled in our new places in this world. One day I won’t feel like we’re drowning. One day I’ll be better a friend and better human who isn’t trying to just survive one mess after another. One day I’ll have my shit together. One day. One day. One day. Until then, thank you for seeing us and hearing us and loving us through the storm. 

I wrote that after a particularly rough few days. It sat on my desktop because the library wifi was out and I couldn’t post it and I couldn’t use my phone’s hot spot because the teen was using it to attend her zoom class in said library. So there it sat (one day I’ll write about the BIG GIANT mistake that should have been caught and wasn’t and will one day be funny but it sure as hell isn’t yet). Suffice it to say, I wasn’t in a great place. 

The very next day, still in a rough spot but trying to do something to distract myself, I went to the thrift store in search of some things for a little kitchen makeover (and by makeover I mean finally getting to a point where its coming together in a cohesive space and not just halfway finished). Just before I walked up to the register, I spied the vintage books section. I never ever go to that area, for whatever reason. But on that day, I looked over. And what I saw stopped me in my tracks. 

The Witchdoctor’s Dance by Dr. JB Wofford, MD. My Poppy. 

You see, my grandfather, my Poppy, was a writer. And The Witchdoctor’s Dance is one that I don’t have on my shelf. I think it was one of the ones lost in the great mold debacle. Not only that, I have never seen a copy in the wild. Ever. And this was a signed copy. I opened it up, tears in my eyes and traced my fingers over his familiar doctor’s scrawl.

Obviously I bought it. And sobbed the entire way home. I don’t really know what happens to us after we leave this earth, but I do know that some part of his energy, somewhere, knew I needed a little nod from him. A little encouragement to keep going and that someone sees me and hears me. It was exactly what I needed and I am eternally grateful to him. I had been looking for a sign from the universe, and instead, I got one from my Poppy. A little nod from someone who loved me unconditionally, and a fellow writer, that everything is going to be okay. 

I’m doing my best to reframe how I look at things—to call down love and light and positive energy. I deleted social media off my phone and I’m taking a break for a bit. No more doomscrolling, no disassociating and absolutely fucking up my attention span. More living intentionally. More creativity. More yoga. More breathing through challenges instead of holding on to them and letting them take up too much space. More finishing the house and creating an inviting space that we all love and want to cozy into for the holiday season. More intentional time together. More quiet cups of tea in the morning with just myself…not the news or thirty second reels. 

It’s been a challenge, I won’t lie. But it has been so so good. It’s been almost a week and I can already tell a difference. So here’s to finding myself once more, figuring out who I am in the wake of the last two years, who I want to be, what I want in my life, and how to find peace in all the chaos. And to writing more and letting mistakes happen and being okay with not chasing perfection.