9.3.21

One summer evening.

Origin story

This substack is brought to you by my sore right hand, and the blister between my thumb and pointer finger. I’ve been writing letters lately, partly because I’m obsessed with aesthetic but largely useless stationary, partly because I’m an external processor, and partly because the joy of receiving a handwritten letter in the mail, especially when out of the blue, is unparalleled.

But unfortunately, my hand hurts now. My handwriting is often unreadable. Also, I realize I have wonderful friends (yes, you) who I don’t in the least keep posted enough.

So, for the sake of efficiency (and fear of carpal tunnel), this substack was born. My goal is to write more than once (setting expectations low here).

Workaholic

I was visiting a friend in Seattle a few weeks ago, and I knew there was a very, very slim chance I would get any writing done while I was traveling. Still, I brought my laptop, my notebook(s), my edit letter and revision notes. Did I touch my ms at all during that week? No. But when I got home and assessed the past week, I didn’t feel the usual accompanying surge of disappointment. I guess I’m learning.

On my calendar when I’m actively writing, I tend to make a note of what I accomplished that day, denoting different projects with different colored ink. Here’s an example:

Because I’m a kid, I love stickers. And filling in a little white box with what I accomplished each day is my 2021 equivalent of a sticker. So when I see a blank box, it does leave me a little dissatisfied. Which, you know, doesn’t take into account all the joy and potential of the day–the warmth of seeing an old friend again, or the wonder you feel running alongside the ocean, hearing the train tracks beneath you. It’s reductive to measure the value of a day in the number of words I wrote, or the revision progress I made on a particular project. But it also helps me keep momentum going on a ms, especially a first draft, where every word feels like pulling teeth. So how to balance the two?

I’m still trying to figure it out. As for this trip, I stuck a length of tape on the dates I would be in Seattle. To set the expectation that I wouldn’t be working. It seems obvious, but the visual reminder helped. Because the disappointment I feel is often unconscious. Of course, out loud, I would say it’s unrealistic to get work done while on vacation. But beneath the surface, my finicky brain sets subconscious expectations for myself, so that I don’t notice until the resulting disappointment surfaces. Does that make sense?

Balance

This pandemic has simultaneously brought out my workaholic and procrastination tendencies in full force.

I’m actually not a workaholic when it comes to my work work. Anything related to my day job often gets relegated to the backlog, until I finish it at the last possible second. (I’ve had meetings where I’ve started prepping five minutes beforehand.)

But when it comes to writing, at least for now, the creative well feels like it’s overflowing. I had a conversation with a friend about East Asian beauty standards, and that same day, I had an idea for a poem in the shower. I went for a walk with my dog, and thought about how to fix the pacing and structure of my ms. I’m balancing three different projects right now (four, if you count the growing embryo in my mind, not yet set down on paper) and I just want time. More time.

That’s why I love weekends. Weekends feel a bit like time travel sometimes. Like time for everyone else is slowed or stopped, but for me, I can progress forward–if I want to.

Shower thoughts

Here’s the poem I mentioned above:

They say beauty is the wisdom of women, and that is why
you spend your coin on pills, supplements, the razor edge of a blade.

So that you choke on your tongue when you wake, unable to cry—

Your mouth is unmoving, your nose is no longer your own, your skin is so numb
you cannot feel the touch of your mother’s hand. Touching your cheek
once her cheek, before you deemed it too sallow, too wide, too costly–

–deviance is costly. Your doctor did warn you. The cost of surgery is high,
He said. But the cost of a deviant face is higher.

They say beauty is the wisdom of women, but it is actually the bottom line,
the last word, the axis on which the scalpel cuts. If you look in the mirror
and do not see the face of a stranger, then who are you?

Nobody, they say. The stranger’s face is the face of familiarity.  
The face of job prospects, of safety, of routine and reason.

True beauty is this: walk down the street and stare at the faces of women
you pass. There is my nose, you say, to the cafe waitress. There are my double eyelids,
you say, to your mother-in-law. There is my v-line jaw, you say, to your neighbor,
the one who warned you you wouldn’t be able to yawn for a year.

I wasn’t trying to be ambitious, you tell your neighbor
with the same jaw. I only wanted to live a normal life.

That’s what everybody says, she tells you.
And that’s why everybody has your face.

I’ve never written anything so quickly, (or been in such a hurry to get out of the shower). Now I understand why poets thrive on instant gratification. If poets are sprinters and hurdlers, then novelists are marathon runners. You have to keep going even when the end is nowhere in sight.

Love,
Krystal