The Things We Need

"I say, fuck you Jobu..."

 As a sports fan, it tickles me to know about athletes' good luck charms- the items they believe will help them win games. Things like a crucifix, a certain piece of equipment, or even a pair of lucky underwear. It's funny that these men and women, who have practiced until their bodies are beyond hurt, think a sock will make all the difference. Forget skills, precision, expertise. We've got SOCKS!

What's even funnier is realizing that I, too, have my little trinkets that helped me write, travel, and just get through the day in general, and without them everything feels wrong and out of place. My grandmother's ring; a novelty pencil from Jamaica that I dubbed Barrington Mon; a bullet on a chain given to me by a sweet Vietnamese suitor back in high school; my thumb drive, filled with everything I've ever even thought about writing. These are the things I need.

If I dare get on a train, plane, or automobile and am not wearing or carrying Grandma's ring, or my thumb drive, I freak out inside. When I used to perform at readings, I needed that bullet necklace in my pocket. When I would sit at the computer trying to conjure up a story and Barrington Mon was not nearby, I couldn't focus on what I was trying to write.

Of course it's silly to depend on them. After all, I have all this talent, I had all those stories that wanted and needed to be told. The lack of a pencil or a piece of jewelry should not have stood in the way of that. But it did. On the flip side, maybe there's truth to trinkets and totems holding a certain energy that can help, protect, and comfort, and then transfers that energy to us. 

You know, my grandmother didn't get to travel (NJ doesn't count). As far as I know, she came to Brooklyn and stayed put, with just a few tiny trips to Lawrence, Massachusettes; Buffalo, NY; Virginia Beach; and maybe she went a cruise to Alaska? Am I making that up? I think I am... Anyways, that was the extent of it. But with me, through that ring, and in my heart, she's been across the Atlantic, across the country, and even parasailing in Key West. I need Grandma's ring with me everywhere because she's not here in body. (The thumb drive coming with me is just a panic response to having countless computers crash on me, taking with them countless raw documents I'll never get back. It's my emotional support thumb drive.)

And every desk I've ever had since 2005 has featured Barrington Mon; he was gifted to me by a kind, gentle soul I met during my MFA residency, who always had wise observations and a beautiful way of speaking and writing. This pencil reminds me to be easy and trust the light within (advice given to me by said friend), even though I abandoned my craft in 2020. 

The bullet necklace? Well, I mean it's a bullet necklace. Like an actual bullet. It's cool as fuck and I will always cherish it and remember that kid from high school who took it from around his neck and gave it to me when I complimented it. I don't really know it's history, and I've given it at least three backstories from my imagination, but I do know that when I wear it, my confidence level is through the roof.

Does this sound crazy? Do you have your own little false idols? Or is it just this recovering Catholic + a bunch of MLB players? Either way, it's what I need.

Love & Balls,
Jaded

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hey, please excuse the mess

see I just wanna feel

i mean really really feel

it all, it all

so give me something...

On Retirement and Finding My "Why"

courtesy of Simon Sinek

"Why do you do what you do? It’s not an easy question, but the answer could make a big difference in your life."

Sometime around 2018 I started to notice that I had been coasting on autopilot in my life. Maybe it was because my youngest was graduating and leaving for school across the country, and I had more time to think, but it was a sobering realization. I finally had the time and freedom to do whatever the fuck I wanted, but didn't know exactly what that was, or if I did know, wasn't taking the steps to get what I wanted. The one area of my life that took the biggest hit was writing (and all of my literary endeavours). I remember thinking, "who cares?" and "what's the point?" and I began to hate everything I had created and resent the people who were reaching out to me about their writing, wanting to do readings, etc. AND I HATED MY COLLEAGUES AT MY 9-5, which I couldn't do anything about because I was paying tuition for one kid and subsidizing rent for another.

So to summarize, I was very unhappy and had too much time to think about that unhappiness but I was stuck in a situation of my own making because I had dependents, which meant that chasing a dream (even if I had lost sight of that dream) wasn't possible because I had to do practical things.

Then in the summer of 2019, my literary org was turning ten and I planned what I thought was a fun celebration...that no one wanted to attend. I took a step back and thought, "all these people that I've helped, or published, or given a stage to, or collaborated with, and maybe five ride-or-die folks wanted to celebrate that with me. Enough was enough. I decided to retire and disappear from the literary scene in NYC. I refused all invites to talks and readings and workshops, stopped editing manuscripts, and abandoned my own work. I even handed over the reins to La Pluma y La Tinta to someone else.

That fall, a bunch of shit started to happen, like a snowball rolling down a hill, that forced me into therapy. And every session was just me crying because I felt weak and lost and really, what was I even doing with this life anymore?

It's been a lot. And my therapist concluded the obvious: I do for everyone else, and hardly ever for me. 

Where does that leave me now? Slightly un-retired. I'm reading again. I've even started listening to audiobooks. Ideas for stories have popped in my head. A tiny vision of where I want to focus my energies emerged. Now, I'm not saying therapy did all that, but it didn't NOT do all that, either.

I'm working on my why. I think I'm meant to use my storytelling abilities to persuade you mongrels to stop being assholes to the planet and each other. That's what really matters to me. This reboot is a part of that work.

Lake Como, my heart

But if in pursuit of de-mongrelizing you I happen to become a best-selling author who splits her time between a three-bedroom condo in Riverdale, a refurbished farmhouse on the right good side (read: the side that doesn't touch NJ) of the Hudson River Valley, and a vineyard in Italy, too, you know, I wouldn't be mad at that.

Love & Balls,

Jaded

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it seems like I'm always against me

seems like this is never ending

and I refuse to let it end me

mentally, spiritually, physically

i need my peace

I Guess That Makes Me Michael Bivins.

Two posts in one week? Shocking! Someone call the tabloids!

But I have something that needed to be written out, because y'all know that's how I solve things best, and I'm trying to depend less on The Facebook (even though engagement is BETTER there than here).

So I've been in a writing group since about October, and there were five of us. For the past few months we've taken turns submitting stories for feedback and giving feedback on others' work, combined with weekly meetings to discuss said feedback. Easy-peasy.

Well last night, sort of out of nowhere (and I'll explain the sort of later), the guy who organized the group, let's call him Ralph (Tresvant), told one of the other members, we'll call him Bobby (Brown), that he had to go. The actual equivalent of "You can't sit with us!" except among a bunch of nerdy, writing grown-ups. Before he handed down his edict, Ralph had started building his case against Bobby, asking him accusatory questions about the revision he had submitted, questioning his commitment and seriousness and work ethic. From what I gathered, Ralph implied that Bobby wasn't pulling his weight, and was mostly half-assing his writing and editing efforts, and Ralph feels it's a waste of the group's time.

You could have cut the tension with a knife last night.

And listen, those are legitimate concerns to have whenever you're in a group like this. If you feel one member is a weak link, address it before the whole group suffers. I get that. Where this went left is that, right before my eyes, Ralph channeled Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina, made an executive decision, and told Bobby to step. Another member, we'll call him Ricky (Bell), tried to intercept and asked Ralph, "Are we going to discuss this?" but Ralph was all "Nah. Bobby gotta go. And y'all can stay or go, but Bobby GOT TO GO." And I'm sitting there, locking eyes with the other member, Ronnie (DeVoe), who happens to be Ralph's partner, wondering if suddenly I had to prove I could properly pronounce perejil or risk getting chucked into Massacre River.

Y'all. I don't need this stress. I just want a safe space to share my work and get honest feedback so that I can get my work published. DASSIT. How did my life become fodder for a "Behind the Music Writing" episode?

And regarding the sort of, Ralph and Bobby have been clashing since Day 1, and I could see that their personalities didn't match up. And frankly, a lot of times Bobby needs to be wrangled and reigned in, and yes, if the personalities don't mesh in a group then YES, changes need to be made.

However, the way Ralph pulled rank and refused to discuss his decision, and basically implied that Ricky and I don't have a say--the equivalent of "If you don't like it, you can leave, too!"--did not, DOES NOT, sit well with me. Yes, he organized the group, but we're a group. Why can't we discuss this? Why can't you approach Bobby on your own with your concerns? Why the blow up at the table in front of god and everyone at the coffee shop? Child. I mean, is it me, or does that speak to an issue with Ralph's personality, as well as coping and leadership skills?

I've already discussed this with 2/3 of the Jaded Advisory Board, so now I guess I'll see what y'all think; I'm about 82.7% sure of my next move, which starts with contacting both Ralph and Bobby, and letting them know I won't be participating in a tug-o-war. Le sigh.

And quietly, I'm starting to feel more like Tamar Braxton, in that scene of "Braxton Family Values" when her sister Towanda yelled, "Every group you've ever been in has failed!" Every writing group I've been in fizzled. Is it me? IS IT ME?

What say you, lovelies?

*smooches...wondering if I should just create in a bubble*
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I like collaborating, but these hos ain't loyal... and sorry about the mixed analogies, by the way