By Brendan O’Meara
Hey, CNFers, very happy to introduce you to (in case you haven’t met) Taiyon J. Coleman, a leader, instructor, professor, and the author of Traveling without Moving: Essays from a Black Woman Trying to Survive in America (Univ. of Minnesota Press).
It’s a fine collection that highlights systemic injustices that go largely invisible to people of privilege, like myself. So it’s all the more important to read about the experiences of our fellow Americans, to find a greater sense of empathy and feel the weight of their truths. We need to mainline other truths, people! The book is heavy and buoyant, and I hope you’ll consider picking up a copy.
This conversation is uplifting and energizing. The people who get to call Taiyon and friend and mentor are blessed. She’s the kind of spirit that makes things feel possible, and this is my not-so-subtle way of saying that we need more of that. We need more people like Taiyon.
We talk about negative self-talk, things she likes to have in place for a good writing session, how everything is connected, and the metaphor of being thrown in the deep end of the pool not knowing how to swim.
Parting Shot: All One Piece
Thanks to Taiyon, made me feel good about myself for a second there, and thanks to you for listening, CNFers. Not too long ago, I ate a second helping of oatmeal, and protein powder and peanut butter and I wonder why I can’t get leaner for my health and all. Like, I know I need to focus primarily on protein and veggies but I can’t shake my desperate craving for the salty goodness of crunchy peanut butter and then tomorrow in my journal I’m gonna beat the shit out of myself again. My issues with my body and food are legion. It’s messed up. I wish I didn’t feel this way about it, but after so many years of being conditioned about appearances, being made fun of by friends calling me fat all my life, it really messes with you. All the women are like, welcome to the club, asshole.
So I got my copy edits back for The Front Runner. Spoke with my editor. I think he’s as sick of this book as I am. I think he’s as sick of me as I am, too. I was scared to open up the book. I was expecting carnage, a blood bath and that signature voice and frustration you can feel vibrate off the page from the copy editor, a prickly brand of person.
But I was surprised by the lack of issues raised by the copy editor, who I requested to connect with on LinkedIn. She has not replied. It’s mainly a boatload of comma shit, and a few issues of where she couldn’t confirm a person’s name. And thanks to my omnibus spreadsheet, I could find the article that had the person in question. I’m a couple chapters into Part 3, which means I’m almost through since I began this task on Tuesday Nov. 12. I’m cruising along. The final third of the book could be a shit show, I won’t know, and neither will you, until later.
The last phase is getting the last round of photo permissions secured by this one guy who is sweet, but a giant pain in my ass. He is dragging his feet so slowly. I’ve offered to drive down to California with my scanner and get this shit done. It’s maddening. But he has some incredible photos, and I really want them for the book. But I only have maybe ten more days before things have to be largely buttoned up for good, so … deadlines make for good task masters. I’ll message him again soon and be like, we’ve got five days.
OK, so there’s this older personal trainer, coach I listen to. His name’s Dan John, and I’ve shared his work, his Easy Strength books. I like his philosophy to strength training, especially as I crest into middle age and have become so depressingly brittle.
A big thing he says is the body is one piece. Meaning, let’s say you have a bummed shoulder, like I do right now. It’s OK, say, to military press 40 pounds overhead with my left arm, and 10-15 pounds with my right. It’s something. And here’s the one part part: Just because I’m taxing one side more than the other doesn’t mean that everything is localized. Hormones, blood, other shit is pulsing through the entire body, healing agents, so there’s a cascade effect that even if I do some big-body movements and tack on some smaller stuff, if I’m squatting, all that hormonal shit released from the big move goes to my arms, my shoulders, my back, my brain. The body is one part.
Likewise, a writing life is one piece. Work. Grocery shopping. Sleeping. Exercise. Fucking. Eating. Reading. Attending readings. Telling your friends about a cool book. Watching movies. Staring into nothing. Just because you’re not maxing out writing words in a manuscript doesn’t mean you’re atrophying. Sometimes, you need to step away from writing.
Hustle culture will tell you that you must grind out writing every day. There might be a time for that, but it’s best to surrender to a seasonal approach to your work. It’s all one piece, so if you’re feasting over here, it doesn’t mean you’re starving over here. It’s all circulating through the same body.
I don’t know why I felt a need to say this, but it felt right. It’s easy to shame ourselves into thinking we’re not writing enough, publishing enough, reading enough. Social media and capitalism have driven us to the brink of our collective and individual sanity. It’s OK to consider the day a win for merely getting out of bed, getting your kids to school, not dropping your phone in a puddle. We’re all tired and none of us feel like we’re doing enough, not successful enough, not rich enough, not thin enough, not young enough.
I have no solutions except to remind myself and you that there’s little point in putting any extra pressure on ourselves to achieve. The body is one piece, a writing body is one piece, treat it well, treat it with compassion. You’ll be OK. We’ll be OK. I hope we’ll be OK. So stay wild CNFers and if you can’t do, interview, see ya!
