Lately, I have been having too much fun to write. That sounds like a sinful confession, coming from an author. Aren’t we supposed to be more disciplined, writing every day, without fail, no matter what? That’s what the great writers say they do. (The male writers who say they do, well, their hormones are the same every day, without variation. Just sayin’.) But this is by no means a confession or an apology. This is what I wrote for: to connect with readers. And I have to say, it’s everything I ever dreamed of.
When I started writing this novel, I was in the throes of postpartum depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and DMER. I was not in good shape. In fact, most days, suicidal feelings came to visit me in the form of intrusive thoughts. I had no desire to take action on those thoughts, no plans, but that didn’t make them any less depressing or frightening. So I did what I have always done: I played with words as a way to get curious about what I was feeling.
First, I wrote to get it all out. Second, I wrote to remember who I was. And most importantly, I wrote to transform pain into art, beauty, and something life-giving.
You see, I wrote into existence what I needed: a circle of (fictional) mom friends who could listen and offer support whenever I opened my laptop, a supportive husband who listened without trying to fix and who thought to do the little things to bring a smile to my face, who wasn’t weighed down by what I was feeling, and a badass therapist who did what I would do if I were healthy.
(In truth, I have wonderful friends and a husband who has stood by me, but let’s be real, y’all. It was during COVID lockdown, and those people weren’t accessible to me, or they were struggling, too. And that’s ok.)
I wrote into existence what I, and so many parents going through a perinatal mental health journey, need: community. I wrote because someday, I hoped that someone else would read it and know that they are not the only one. They are not broken. There is hope for healing. It is a temporary medical condition, completely treatable, and with support, they will be well.
There’s what I think of as “spiritual community”: people who make me feel less alone in the world because we are cut from the same cloth. People I may never have met who feel like sister-sojourners across space and time. (Lucille Clifton, whose poem I quote in the book, for example. I read her words and the joyful defiance in them stopped me in my tracks.) Or people I have met, who have made a difference in my life, who become like internal resources, so that when I think of them, the felt sense of them actually has an effect on my body: safety, relaxation, or protection. (My Nana, my high school English teacher, my social work professor.) This idea of “internal resources” is something I use in EMDR therapy with my clients, as well. These characters have become spiritual community for me, now, too. Hearing from readers who tell me that Marlowe or Ivy or Burke or Amaya have become internal resources for them… that truly means the world to me.
I would love to hear about your community, internally or in real life. Who are your inner circle of support people, your ride-or-die friends, the friends who would dig into a cold case with you if you said, “I might be crazy, but…”
In the spirit of connection, thank you to everyone who came out to my book tour events in Reno at the Sierra Book Festival and Radical Cat Books, in Los Angeles at the LA Times Book Festival and the Postpartum Support International Conference, and in San Diego at the Tides of Creativity Festival, KPBS Book Festival, and Warwick’s Books. It made my year! As always, I would love to connect with you in person or online.
