Hi, friends.

I'm writing this sleepily, cicadas chirring outside my window. I've seen fireflies this month for the first time outside my new apartment: little green shimmers in the night. A few weeks ago, visiting my parents, we turned off the lights and marveled at the dozens of fireflies blinking through the wild grass.

Many things are capable of regrowing. This felt like the first summer I've seen so many fireflies since I was a child.

I am regrowing my enjoyment of writing. Not my desire to write — that's always been present, like it or not — but the pleasure of it. It's easier now that I have energy, after a spring of feeling run-down or flat-out sick. Easier, too, now that I have stopped forcing myself to write when I'm sick or run-down and don't have a deadline, because forcing myself to keep going through the hard days — through every hard day — felt like the only tool in my toolbox. Run faster. Work harder.

When I had an especially persistent cold this spring, I decided, quite emphatically, that I would take a break from work and writing. I sat down to play Wanderstop, which had been lingering in my Steam library for months. I hadn't written much all year, in my attempt to cut myself some slack while anemic. Rest was the best road to recovery, et cetera, et cetera.

I won't describe the whole plot for you, but it is a game — thematically, mechanically — about burnout. About giving yourself permission to rest. To take shortcuts. To do something just because you think you might enjoy it. And also, about the fact that life moves on whether or not we're ready for it. It's a beautiful game, that made me both laugh and cry, and I can't recommend it highly enough. (Especially to any recovering academics out there.)

The writing itself is going… some kind of way that’s hard to sum up in a single word. Enjoyably. The writing is going enjoyably. I have not yet written the next Great American Novel and sold it for a gazillion dollars to universal acclaim, but also, I no longer want to pull my teeth out whenever I sit at my keyboard.

I've finished rereading the most recent round of edits I made to this novel, and — while I don't know how it will land for other readers yet — I'm feeling pleased with it. Only a chapter or two need major work. Otherwise most of the changes I'm working on are line edits, little tweaks here and there to scenes to add character depth and consistency. Moreover, after this draft, I feel like I've cracked open new possibilities for the shape of the book (it becomes stultified, the longer you work on one book, and after eleven-ish drafts I sometimes struggle to see outside the plot beats I've worn into the story already.) It feels possible to make bigger changes if needed, to breathe new life into it.

I've also been reading some excellent books. The Sapling Cage (Margaret Killjoy), Deephaven (Ethan M. Aldridge), and the Butterfly Assassin trilogy (Finn Longman) all stand out as favorites. I just finished Longman's newest novel, The Wolf and His King, which I loved just as much as I hoped I would when I pre-ordered it. Highly recommend to anyone who loves historical fiction that cares about the material reality of its characters (did you know that some kinds of medieval clothing were sewn on?), who loves werewolf-ing as a way to explore the body & chronic illness, who loves clever use of perspective & poetry in a novel, or who just loves a good retelling of medieval literature. I’ve prevented my phone from accessing social media apps after 9pm, partially because [waves hands] you know, doomscrolling, but also because I wanted to make more time to read before bed. It's been nice! Hot tip: If you’re reading a book you love before bed, it sometimes makes you want to go to bed early so you have more reading time. (Sometimes you still get too excited about the book to sleep, though. Alas, nothing I can do about that except try to pace myself.)

How are you? Are you working on any creative projects at the moment? How are you keeping your own attention?

Love,

Siobhan