Writing Life

Getting this off my mind so I can write other things

Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria is losing whole nights of sleep going over and over social interactions in your head because you can’t process whether a negative comment was friendly joking or brutally condemning.

RSD is never friending anyone on Facebook because you can never know if you’ve already tried and they deleted it because they don’t like you, and the thought of being That Persistent Pest makes you want to curl up and hide forever.

RSD is putting on a good face and knowing when to laugh and minimize even though there is NO SUCH THING as friendly teasing for you. It’s being battered to pieces by casual commentary at parties and then going home to cry and swear you’ll never socialize again.

RSD is ghosting entire groups after any hint of disapproval — whether real or internally-generated/interpreted — because you’re obviously a monster who has nothing good to contribute and everyone else will be happier if you never participate.

RSD is cherishing the rare, patient people who make the effort to pursue relationships strong enough to make the joy of friendly teasing possible. It’s feeling infinite gratitude to those who understand trust is infinitely delicate structure that has to be built and rebuilt, that language matters, that honesty matters.

This is a shout-out to everyone in my life who trys to understand why I can weather open, honest criticism & conflict all day long, but minor remarks, joking judgments, and it-doesn’t-matters can create crushing internal pressure.

This is a love note to all the friends who take the time to be gentle with me in conversation & patient with my need for explicit clarification and framing. You re the best and my appreciation is boundless & endless.

Also I wanted to see if I could write a post in second-person without shriveling up into a ball of self-doubt. Go, me.

Ooo! Also, here are BUTTONS for places to buy my books. (SOON I WILL HAVE A WAY TO BUY THINGS VIA THIS SITE)
The latest “improvements” to the WordPress post editor are mostly a royal PITA, but they did add a bunch of fun toys.

Writing Life

Random Bits and Pieces 10/22/2020

Thing the 1st: I am playing with new site settings in WordPress. I want all the pretties. So expect rando buttons colors & links to show up in posts for a while, as I experiment with New Things.

Thing 2: I enjoy interacting on social media, but doom-scrolling remains a problem. Once I’ve caught up with any online conversations I’m in, the sites become unsatisfying attention traps. I’d rather spend my time on other things. (writing! reading! watching Mandalorian!)

But I can’t avoid the sites entirely because I have things to share & converse about. Some are too big for a tweet but aren’t worth the hassle of typing, tagging, adjusting, and posting to this blog.

If I go online with them, I get dragged into the time-suck of clicking Facebook-Twitter-Facebook-Instagram-Facebook over and over.

So. When I found out I could post Twitter THREADS from the blog, I had to give it a try.

Thing 3: I have big plans for tomorrow. First, vote. Depending on how long that takes, then I’ll go buy blinds for the office, which means IKEA, which means getting Portillos takeout afterwards. I’m really, really hoping I have spoons enough for all that, because the final thing on the list is finish Book/section 4 of Sharp Edge & get it off to alpha readers. And that’s all the all for now.

Detours Writing Life

Passing thought

Some thoughts on body comfort & dealing with aging and generally coping with the reality of being a lump of replicating cells that creep daily toward death.  Inspired by all the “oh, body, how you betray me as I age,” posts all over the social sphere on the one day a week I’m allowed to surf.

The bleak humorous posts come mainly from people in their 20’s and 30’s. I can sympathize with their shock and unhappiness, oh, yes. It’s aggravating to discover you can’t do something as easily as you once could.

There’s often a sense of resentment about it, though, and I can’t fathom the bitterness.

First, I don’t remember ever having an expectation of navigating daily life without pain or risk of injury. Maybe as a toddler? No, there was the top bunk incident and the 16 stitches in my chin (blood swirling down the drain, my parents talking over my head with the doctor about possible facial scarring… I was 3, I think?) I knew life was a contact sport wherein any action could bench me with injuries before puberty hit. Tying my shoes and “sitting wrong” have always been hazardous. No biggie. Deal & heal.  I honestly never realized it wasn’t like that for everyone until college. (There are reasons I was teased for being The Oblivious Child)

Second, resentment springs from a sense of betrayal, and that relies on an adversarial relationship with physicality I can’t grok. My body isn’t an enemy or even a frenemy. It’s a housecat.

No, really. It cannot care for itself without my help, it wants lots of things that will do it harm, it’s always finding new and creative ways to break things, and there’s no ignoring it when it needs attention. It’s my responsibility to monitor its behavior and keep it from hurting itself, and we are both happiest when I give it extra pampering. It’s totally a cat.

And yeah, sometimes I’m displeased with my body. (I REALLY didn’t like that phase in my teens when my neck and spine grew first and my legs took time to catch up so I felt like a teeny, clunky giraffe, but hey. I did even out. eventually.)  I’m sometimes displeased with my cat, too. Like when he decides my bedside is just the place to vomit up hairballs.

But I digress. My body is mine, and sometimes it purrs, and it tries to be good, and so I can’t imagine resenting it for things it can’t help.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with resenting your body. I’m an all-out supporter of doing whatever works to keep yourself going. No such thing as a One True Way etc. I can’t see that it would ever work for me, that’s all I’m saying.

Anyway. Gonna go give myself a treat and a brushing now.

Writing Life

Passing thought

The life or death of America as we know it is being decided this week.  No, seriously. That’s actually true of every election, but this one…this one worries me more than any since 1984, which was the year I started thinking about the future as a globally broken, war-torn regressive era.  For years many friends have insisted I’m wrong and alarmist about the potentially fatal damage of apathy. I’m not wrong. Grr. Arrgh.