Hi, folks,

How are you?

I'm good. Or, at least, I'm working my way back to good.

And I don't care if that's grammatically incorrect.

I was homeschooled, so I never had the sort of English teacher so many people seem to have at least once in their primary educations. The kind who's a stickler for prescriptivist grammar and makes you diagram sentences. But I have several English degrees, so I've experienced my share of grammar shaming. And my partner did have one of those teachers. Every once in a while, he repeats something she drilled into him that makes me want to fight a guy.

One of her aphorisms that cycles through my head at least once or twice a month is:

Super heroes do good, you're doing well.

Which, sure. Except, I happen to think there's plenty that's heroic about just getting by. Some days, my super power is being able to make coffee whilst in dire need of coffee. Getting up and showing up––in whatever capacity that's available to you on that given day––is, to me as deserving of accolades as saving the city. Because, you know what? It's fucking harder. It's taken for granted. Nobody ever seems to recognize how Herculean that effort can be, until life happens and then they do.

So, if you need permission, here it is:

Go ahead and tell people you're doing good. Because you are, even if you're at the grocery store in your pajamas buying junk food. Even if you show up for your work Zoom calls in the work-from-home mullet (work top, pajama pants) every single day. Even if you're just scraping by. Maybe especially then.

I have an ulterior motive in writing this, you see, because I'm just scraping by these days. Life has been lifing. This summer has included the death of an extended family member, the death of one of my ducks, catastrophic flooding, and me saying yes to too many things despite all of that. As a result, I haven't written pretty much anything for the past two months (with the exception of revision words). Adulting has taken up all of my time, and even so I feel like I'm failing at it. Like I'm a kid dragged along with a carousel, all scraped knees and elbows and a trail of snot and tears.

Sometimes, life narrows itself down to a pinpoint focus. The world seems sapped of magic. And you keep going, and you keep going, and you keep going to the very best of your ability. Capitalism sucks that way.

If you're me, during those times, you remind yourself that magic will saturate everything again, if you can breathe and rest and hold on just a little bit longer. That there are still wonders everywhere––mushrooms, trees, a garter snake popping its head out of the grass just in time for you to see it. That Autumn is on its way, with crisp days and cozy nights. That confetti leaves and pumpkin coffee and Halloween will be here soon, to balm to your weary soul. That the words will eventually come back.

They always do.

Until then, I'm hanging on to good with everything I've got.

What's That? A Poem?

I wrote this poem during a panic attack on an airplane in November 2018. And you know what? It seems thematically appropriate for this newsletter.

Breathe Like You Love Yourself

My body is a susurrus of symptoms
hushed in their myriad comings and goings.
I can’t keep track.
I’m not a hypochondriac, I just
carry anxiety around
like that kid at camp you agree to piggyback
even through you know they’re too big—
staggering under the weight.

Somebody once told me to breathe like I love myself.

That’s a lie. I heard it on YouTube and repeated it as I
prodded my aching ribcage and tried not to let
thinking about breathing choke me.

Breathe like you love yourself.

Breathe like you love yourself.

Breathe like love is oxygen and you know how to get enough of both.

Anxiety is like that gates of heaven riddle
where one dude always lies and the other always tells the truth,
but heaven’s not waiting for me on the other side
and it’s my own damn voice on an endless loop of fake news. 

You’re alone. 

Breathe like you love yourself.

You’re not enough.

Breathe like you love yourself.

You’re going to fail.

Breathe like you love yourself.

You’re breaking.

Breathe like you love yourself.

Anxiety is the aftertaste of albuterol
and the shaking, jittering, trembling that comes after.
I’m floating but my chest still feels tight as a casket,
and as stuffy. I don’t have asthma anymore,
but somehow each breath is still a loan against the next,
words an expense I can’t afford.

Breathe like you love yourself.

No. Really.

Fill your shriveled lungs as much as you can. 
Wheeze in sheer, perverse, obstinate resistance.
Hoover up whatever oxygen you can get, and squirrel it away
in the deepest recesses of your body, 
Make your anxiety share the space until it squirms

Then, exhale.

August Recommendations

• Since I'm writing about ways to be a superhero this month: heroes support short fiction venues. Here's a whole list of speculative fiction mags you can subscribe to!

• Sylvan Esso's "Ferris Wheel" reminds this autumn-child that summer can be magic, too.

• Ruthanna Emrys's A Half-Built Garden is at once a high-stakes first contact novel featuring diplomacy and sabotage and a gentle, caring, found-family-oriented slice of life story set in a world where humans are cooperating to actually do something about climate change--and making strides doing it. I loved it!

Thanks for wallowing with me,
Courtney