Taking Breathing for Granted

On feeling vulnerable, not seeing the moon, and (huzzah!) two best-of 2022 lists

When I walk my dog with the neighbor, her dog chooses the route. Yesterday Luna led us through the woods and into the local park—the longest jaunt in our current repertoire. Halfway through, on the way up a hill, I realized my chest was tight. My lungs weren’t pulling enough air in.

A sudden realization: I’m not okay.

I said this aloud and my neighbor paused with me. I tried breathing regular breaths, then slow deep breaths to stem the rising panic. It all felt wrong.

I made it the rest of the way up the hill, along a gravel path, and down a set of stairs before sitting down and calling for help. Pick me up, I told my husband. I can’t go on.

This is the moment I stopped. Waffles didn't know quite what to do.

I walk this route regularly, or at least I used to. Until midway up the hill yesterday, I didn’t know I had lost the ability to walk a long route. I tested positive for COVID fifteen days ago and have since been resting in quarantine and taking occasional slow, short walks. I managed those outings without worrying about my lungs.

Before I got sick, between walking and roller skating, my immunocompromised, pain-ridden body was in better shape than ever before.

There’s something terribly scary about dodging a virus for years only to find yourself the dangerous one. The sick one. The one who might put others at risk. I’m still wrestling with that shift and with how I had felt safe enough, wearing my mask, even when others weren’t masked. Now how can I go back into the world, knowing this? Feeling so vulnerable?

I engaged with the world while fully protected—masking and fully vaccinated, even boosted with the bivalent shot 28 days before I contracted the virus. I should have been at peak immunity.

With a combination of luck, resources, and a diligent quarantine, I kept my other three family members safe. My cold-like symptoms have resolved but they’ve left their mark—my autoimmune system has activated into a full-blown flare that’s manifesting in my joints and on patches of skin. Most days I can’t use my thumbs for more than a few minutes of typing. Which isn’t great for someone whose career is computer-based. I usually push through my pain but it isn’t possible now. Not to mention the lingering exhaustion.

Last week, on a phone call, my friend with a life-altering stroke told me she can’t see the moon anymore. It doesn’t shine into her window at the care facility. You don’t miss something like the moon until you do.

I didn’t miss breathing until midway up that hill on a routine dog walk. I didn’t even equate the tightness in my chest with COVID-related lung issues because other parts of my body hurt more urgently. Like my hands and my wonky hips. But apparently, my lungs aren’t okay. Yet.

I just read this essay by Sarah Fawn Montgomery and I related deeply to her thoughts on writing and disability, especially in the midst of this flare. (I’m really excited to read Sarah’s book Halfway From Home, now out from Split/Lip.) So—maybe—I need to openly address my chronic pain and start adjusting my life’s work to what my body can do, instead of the other way around. Or instead of my longtime way of dealing: pretending I’m fine.

I’m better post-COVID, but not fine. I wasn’t fine before, either. Pushing my physical self to exceed expectations, no matter how it feels, isn’t something I have the luxury of doing at this stage in my life. Not when the physical cost of every single action, from folding laundry to typing an email to turning the page in a book I’m reading to my kid to stirring soup on the stove, is so high.

I don’t have a solid plan, exactly, but I do have a concept: less time at the keyboard. How I work now isn’t working for my body anymore. Saying it out loud is the first step to adjusting my workflow. I’m also thinking about how I can help writers and establish an affordable consulting practice that isn’t entirely dependent on my ability to type.

It feels even more important to figure this out before Forest Avenue opens for novel submissions in January.

In exciting news, my novel, Singing Lessons for the Stylish Canary, was named a best fiction title of 2022 by Powell’s Books!

My author Neil Cochrane made it into The Washington Post with his novel The Story of the Hundred Promises. It’s a best science fiction and fantasy pick for 2022. A Forest Ave title has never made it into the Post before, so this accolade feels extra special.

Powell’s also named Neil’s book a Great Book Under $25, so you’ll see it featured in the stores and online.

Both The Story of the Hundred Promises and Singing Lessons for the Stylish Canary are featured in the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association holiday catalog, which is rolling out now through local newspapers and indie bookstore mailings.   

Neil and I met a lot of readers at the Portland Book Festival!

And if you want a signed and/or personalized copy of Singing Lessons for gifting purposes, you can get one at Annie Bloom’s. The store ships books or local folks can pick up orders. Just mark in the comments that you want the book autographed—and whether you want it personalized to a specific person. I’ll bring my pretty paint pens right over and sign it for you!

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YOUR BRIGHT SIDE INVITATION: In this time of contemplating how to make my life more sustainable, I’ve thought about how to offer services to writers based on my ten years of publishing and my insights about the industry as a debut author. I’d like to figure out how to be a cheerleader and hand-holder through parts of the publishing process that feel opaque to outsiders. To answer individual authors’ questions in a way that doesn’t extend my work week or worsen my swollen finger joints. To maximize the information sharing in a constructive way that’s affordable for writers and easy on my body. Is there a particular question or skill or service you’d love to see me offer?

FEEL FREE TO LEAVE A COMMENT! Especially with what’s going on over at Twitter, it feels important to build creative space that’s interactive and communal. I started this newsletter to create an intimate but accessible conversation space about creativity, grief, and the societal reset that the pandemic has offered creatives like us. You can reply to this email to have a conversation just with me, or you can comment on the post to connect with other readers. You’re also welcome to forward this to any friends who might like it.