I owe the lot of you an apology. I disappeared off the face of the earth without word or warning for months. The reasons are many but the excuses are few. Life is never cut and dry. Seasons of feast and some of famine. Not every moment was a depression spiral, a bipolar cycle, ptsd rearing its ugly head, or fearful return to in-person society. Hospitals and funerals juxtaposed with touring and coding.
Introduced to my partner's coworkers and visiting rock star friends I've been described as shy. That's not who I am; it is who I've become. There's a lot of self-loathing wrapped up in that. I've found myself avoiding cameras. I forgot how to be a person in the world, a public figure, the face of anything. I abandoned nearly every creative outlet I had. Negative self-image leads to negative self-talk. "I'm too old to be doing this," "I'm out of practice," "Nobody will even notice," "I've nothing more to contribute," "I'm simply not capable." Yes, I'm working through all that in therapy. Yes, admitting that is part of the process.
I filled the void by working on programming and webdev. Both as a daytime freelancer for a brick-and-mortar salon, and moonlighting as a volunteer for the Bizarro Writers Association. Only recently I took on the mantle of editor-in-chief of BizarroCentral. We are going to be representing several independent small presses at Printers Row Lit Fest in Chicago this September 10-11th. Preparations for that are already underway. If you're local or traveling, I'd love to meet you there. I'll try not to be shy.
Any commitment I could make right now are pie crust promises, easily made and easily broken. So I'll just say I'm hopeful for the first time in a long while. I'm thankful to everyone who reached out - even if it went into radio silence, I'm thankful for those of you reading who made it thus far, and thankful for anyone who sticks around to see what the future brings.
Guilt is a hell of a thing, and the only cure I know of is gratitude.
I love you Perv Patrol.
All My Lust,
Sauda