one year

So, I tend to write to find my thoughts. And for that, I apologize. I really did make this Substack my personal ramblings and diary for a year.

One year into this new journey, I’ve learned a lot about how I function and how to manage my expectations.

I’ve written about the struggle of being a neurodivergent person who is artistic, who longs to have the freedom to create and have that be enough.

And yet, I’ve used this outlet to procrastinate.

Because, believe it or not, I’m still overcoming my perfectionism. (Shocker, perfectionism isn’t that easy a mentality to kick.)

While I’ve let a lot of things go, the pain of resistance from the world and my own brain and body still keeps me from progressing in my art form. I still want writing fiction to feel like freedom and bliss, when more often, trying to write my novel feels more like driving a nail into my forehead over and over.

I just didn’t want to admit it.

I wanted to appear like someone who loves to create and advocate for creation, and don’t get me wrong, I DO advocate for it! It is the single most important thing I can do as a neurodivergent writer and artist in dark times like techno-fascism and generative AI mania… but I’ve been deluding myself to say that it always feels like freedom.

So much of the creative process is painful, actually. I don’t wonder why people want to be called artists who use generative AI to create “as a tool,” when the process isn’t always easy. (You just aren’t an artist if you don’t create art with your own abilities, however abysmal.)

Being an artist, especially growing as an artist, is a painful experience. And I must admit, living in this dystopian hellscape and having to scrape by, I just didn’t want to accept that creative pain still needed space in my mind, heart, and body. I am so exhausted all the time; the last thing I want to do is show up to write more of my novel, especially the scenes I’m stuck on or struggling with. I want to get high and go to bed instead.

And I know I’m not alone. I am not the only creatively-inclined person who has to push past this wall. I’m not the only procrastinator or artist who chases dopamine instead of sitting with the ick, the stuckness, the blank page.

I just wasn’t brave enough to admit it publicly.

So… what am I to do to now?

What will the future content of this publication be?

Will the next year of funkylightningcat Books be filled with hard-won fictional chapters, more insightful or personal essays, or will there finally be collaboration with other artists and writers?

At this point, I want to imagine anything can happen.

If you are reading my work here, and you gave me a like, a follow, or a subscription, I know you care; you have faith in this dream.

I want better for all of us.

I want to provide better.

And I am hesitant to make promises to you, so that I can deliver on what I say. So for now, I will hold my tongue.

Thank you so much for one incredible year of funkylightningcat Books. A year ago, I took a chance on a dream of mine, to write and publish my own fiction and nonfiction works, and help my friends and fellow authors bring their stories to the world. I decided, that even if it was half-baked or messy, I would just start.

Thank you for staying with me through the messy, half-baked debut of my indie publishing label.

If you’ve read this far, please enjoy a free month’s subscription to funkylightningcat Books, with full access to the written archive and audio episode library (it’s not a podcast, okay?)

I will see you all very soon. Please remember your creative friends, partners, and the small artist’s voice in your own heart. We’re all struggling, but that’s when we grow to create the best work we’ve ever done.