Write a newsletter, you silly ho

Writer’s Block, Ghost Stories, and TLC

So, fun story, I stared at that title, “Write a newsletter you silly ho,” as the only words in this newsletter for a full day, and then I told myself that no matter what I would write this today. Buckle up, because the theme is ghost stories, writer’s block, and TLC, courtesy of “Silly Ho” off the immortal Fan Mail, which was my favorite album of 8th grade. Don’t worry, this all sort of connects, in a tangential and weird way. 

Yes, like this. 

Let’s start with my tips for writer’s block.

1. Refill the well. 

   This one is what usually works for me. Almost always. The closest thing to a sure thing I can think of. For me, refilling the well means consuming other media: watching a show or movie I love, reading a book I am excited about and in the mood for, listening to an unhinged playlist or an album that inspires me. Lately, it’s also meant allowing myself to spend an ungodly amount of time in a video game. I am beginning to know the secrets and lore of Baldur’s Gate 3 like my own history. Like, I have been trying and failing to romance Astarion for more play throughs then I want to admit. I’ve managed to woo Shadowheart, Gale, and even Halsin! But I can’t get Astarion and it plagues me. One day, my beautiful, pale vampire spawn. One day.

   

2. Surround yourself with people who understand and are rooting for you.

   I am so fortunate to live near wonderful writers who meet up to write, and I am so productive when we do that. There is something about sitting next to someone whose words I admire that just makes me want to write, too. And sometimes this is about an online community; as rough as it can be to navigate, I do make it through the group text and the group chats that give me life. 

3. Revert to childhood joy.

   The song “No Scrubs” just dropped from my speakers, and suddenly I can picture living this evening of pure joy at a sleepover in my friend’s basement, dancing wildly to this song, to the entire album, and then lounging in the world’s best bean bag chair after. I can feel the elation of being surrounded by other amazing nerdy lovers of books and TLC, of waiting for someone to get this CD, of pressing play and listening to it over and over again. My childhood was rough; we moved around a lot and it was tough to make friends when I was rarely in the same county, let alone the same school, for two years in a row. But everyone in that room at that moment got me, and I cherish that memory. And this album. There are some jokes on here that I did not get back then, like “a good man is so hard to find - actually no, a hard man is so good to find.” Suddenly some of my sense of humor is making sense to me. Make sure not to sleep on CrazySexyCool either; because there are some bangers on that one, obviously. I should note that in addition to the joy of that album, the song Unpretty is kind of life saving for a teenager struggling with depression and the fatphobic culture of the early aughts. This hail-the-thigh-gap shit is coming back now, and I HATE that. 

4. Take a walk or a shower.

   When I am stuck, sometimes a nice little walk or a shower will unstuck me. My dog loves the walk as a solution because it means he gets a little walk. He had knee surgery last summer and was super sad to be on limited walking. His vet said he would probably never have the same jumping power, but his sudden return to “little dog who jumps directly onto the table” says otherwise. So be like Nately; even when you think you can’t, or you’re too tired, you, too, can do the writing equivalent of knee replacement and full recovery. I named him after Nately in Joseph Heller’s Catch 22 and I do think he fully embodies the hopeless idealism of Edward J. Nately III.  In dog years, he’s almost 70, but he’s suddenly jumping like a puppy. Good for him, bad for any food I walk away from on a table. 

5. Fill that tank up with spite.

   …Or love, fine, you can use love, too, I guess. Sometimes I just have to remember everyone who has ever said anything disparaging, or acted like I was too far beneath them to talk to. I have decades of experience with this because, sadly, we do not always treat teachers in the US with kindness, but also because there are some people in writing (only a few!) who are, at times, cruel and cliquey. Sometimes I have nothing else left, and I have to run off pure hate, Taylor Swift’s “Mean,” and a determination to prove some guy in my freshman year creative writing class wrong about my “ability to wield metaphor as an art form.” 

And finally, because it’s October, and because I write speculative fiction, I thought of a little exercise that will help me get back into writing TODAY, and maybe it will help you, too.

Here is our fun prompt, and you can feel free to write it just for you OR to reply and tell it to me in the comments.

Tell me a true ghost story. 

Mine takes place many years ago, in one of the few houses my family rented. Usually we lived in apartments, sometimes we lived in friend’s basements; once, we spent a summer all five of us crammed into a spare room at someone’s house. Anyway, it was a treat to live in our own house, but to afford it, we rented in a town close to a now defunct port. I found this charming, the proximity to a river, however polluted, the history of both railroads and ships in the area. The house was run down, but I loved it. We had mice, who I thought were friends, and many other critters, and it was crumbling around the shutters and eaves, decrepit in a solid, reassuring way that I thought meant it had been loved well. It felt like an old book, the spine cracked and bent, the cover hanging off, all signs of the natural wear and tear something beloved earns.

And most importantly, in addition to two bedrooms on the second floor—a luxury—it also had a small attic, which I claimed as my room. The attic was dusty, but it did have windows in the triangular roof, set low enough that an adult could only stand up fully in the middle of the room. I was a little kid, though, and it was tall enough for me. I loved that house, which we could only afford to rent for three or four months before moving. The first week I was there, I sliced off a chunk of my pinky accidentally on the swingset outside, but my mother didn’t like doctors unless absolutely necessary, so she just sent me inside to put pressure on it and lie down. I remember lying woozy in my little bed in the attic, and that it hurt, but I thought it wasn’t so bad, because I had my own space. Both my sisters shared a bedroom downstairs and my parents had their own room and I had my attic.

And it was in my favorite refuge, that I first came to believe in ghosts one stormy night in a town that existed in that liminal space between what is now run down and struggling and what once was mighty and prosperous. I drifted off to the sound of thunder and rain against the roof I slept next to, and sometime in the night I awoke to the sight of a woman standing at the top of the stairs. Across the room from my bed, she was gray, and I could see the bannister behind her, through her. She was corporeal enough that I could make out a rigidly tight bun, a high Victorian collar, and a full skirted dress that looked like nothing anyone I’d ever known would wear.

I squeezed my eyes shut, to see if it was a dream. An apparition. When I opened them, she was there. Closer. Halfway across the room. Her face was stern. Unyielding, but not unkind. Her hands folded neatly in front of her. Foreboding, but not entirely dangerous. I closed my eyes again and she was next to my bed, peering down at me. Watching. I can’t remember if she spoke, or if I just somehow knew, but I was certain that she was The Governess. This was the nineties, and there were no governesses in my life. But I knew it. 

I slammed my eyes shut again, thinking that what this spirit wanted from me was to make sure I fell asleep. When I woke in the morning, there was no sign of anything from the night before, save a few branches and the debris of a strong storm littering my rusty swing set.

I dreamed many times again of the governess, always watching, always stern. Never smiling. Never frowning either. Face set, determined that I would go to sleep. To this day I am not entirely certain whether she was real or merely a figment of the imagination of a voracious reader who dreamed of a life more consequential and stable than the one she lived. Something in my soul suspects she was real, some sort of a guardian ghost, to haunt me and to help me. But it is true that I never dreamed of her again after we moved away, and that in the years to come, I never would. It would be decades later before I thought I saw a ghost again, and that time, much darker, but that is a story for another day. 

TREAT YO’ SHELF to what I’ve been reading lately: 

Under Loch and Key by Lana Ferguson: I’ll be honest, I never thought the phrase “I think I might be kind of sexually attracted to the Loch Ness Monster” would come out of my mouth, but here we are. This was bonkers and amazing fun, and if you’re wondering if I might actually go to Scotland as a result, the answer is maybe. Maybe.

Unromance by Erin Connor: This was beautifully written, and I loved the idea of a romance between a movie star and a successful author where both people are a little bit famous. I think we get the one-person-is-famous set up a lot, and I do enjoy that, too, but this was lovely. Bonus points for a plant killing bisexual MC with unsupportive parents who gets a happy ending anyway. Love, love, love this one. 

Up next:

No Ordinary Love by Myah Ariel, which I am so excited for, because I read her first book, When I Think of You, early on and it’s just gorgeous gorgeous writing and gorgeous gorgeous love. Also I know it is very Mariah Carey inspired and I have loved Mariah Carey since I was single digits. I can’t wait. 

Unloved by Peyton Corrine, which I am so excited to be approved for; I loved Unsteady. I feel like one amazing side effect to selling a book is getting arcs of high demand books, and because I am also an Atria author and I know how lovely Peyton is, I can’t help but think of that scene from Love, Actually, where Billy is like, don’t buy drugs, kids. Become a pop star, and they’ll give them to you, for free! I am weird so I actually had made this a meme already. Here it is again. Though to clarify, you should still buy books. I do. In hundreds. 

Stay tuned for a newsletter with updates. You can find my socials and other fun stuff here.