Microfunctional

and things Odysseus might have said if he were a woman (or real)

Writing as prayer-and-process has carried me through every calamity in life, (and I do have a robust roadmap of treachery thus far), but this particular chapter has left me wordless in her wake. Back in 2020, when many of you started sponsoring my writing process, I found myself in the cradley paradox of proud and profoundly fearful that I would ultimately disappoint you weekly.

Wow, they think I can write!

Oh gawd. What if there are bad weeks?

(there are bad weeks)

Adding to that, I’ve fallen into unintentionally coaching people in writing - not the product, but the process - which also makes my current writer’s block feel really embarrassing. My wheelhouse is explicitly how to put your butt in the seat and words on the page when everything feels shambley and shattered. Maybe you’ve heard that word mosaics are a thing, but have no clue how to make the partially-processed feelings tumble out, so you find yourself digging in the garden or alphabetizing your grocery list?

I, myself, have been expertly distracted by the intricacies of organic chemistry and the other complex ephemera of the medical school application process, as well as moving and playing whack-a-mole with my HOA’s insistence on changing management companies, utility companies, and billing separately for water and wastewater. What? Adding salt to the wound that is adulting, the small bank we chose for being small and banky sold our mortgage to someone else. Someone Big and Scary, whose employees or bots are thorough and consistent in the voices messaging game. Ugh, Beulah, bless you for ringing me daily about how much money I could save if I would just refinance. Like I chose this rate. Like theIf you’re reading, feel free to just… lower my rate, babe! You’ve got my permission.

These bits have kept me from stewing or festering in the death of my brother, my father’s surgery, my partner’s terminal-or-maybe-chronic illness, my own bodily grief and the excessive scanning of my remaining mammalian female features so that I can continue to sally forth with topical estrogen sufficient to kill a horse (but not keep me quite as woman-ish as I would like). I know this reads like a list of complaints, but in truth, it’s abbreviated and scrubbed a bit for brevity and the public nature of the internet. Enough to lay a few decorative elements on the front porch of the rest of this literary doorway where you’ve found yourself.

When you have writer’s block, sometimes you’re coached to write a lot of sensory bits, or re-re-rewrite from other perspectives. Tell us what that front porch analogy smells like. Is it spruce or citrus, or maybe that not-quite-smell that very cold air imparts to nasal passages? And how’s the lighting? Are we in the predawn, bruised sky who doesn’t need words to tell you about the bar fight last night, or the still mid-day heat that is barely cut by the scalloped awning that shields the first eighteen inches of the stoop?

How would the neighbor across the street tell the story differently? What if it was a flashback from 20 years in the past?

But grief? She consumes the same energy that stokes creative fire, and so this… whatever this is… is the best I’ve got putting fingers to keyboard.

Earlier today, before I wrote any of this, we went to see the Odyssey in the theatre. The one with large, reclining seats wrapped in something black that isn’t exactly leather, featuring start times before noon. Our neighbors were individuals and pairs of octogenarians sharing three hours of air conditioning along with us.

[Something you should know, if you plan to see it in the theatre, is that one of the previews is so unhinged and horrifying that I’m afraid to go to bed tonight. I slapped my hands over my eyes hard and fast, and I worry I trapped those horrible images into my brain forever. If you see a girl walk into a kitchen, stop watching.]

If you’re unfamiliar with the story of the Odyssey, reading on will ruin it for you. It’s about a guy who can’t seem to get home, who has some regrets and succumbs to various human temptations and vices. He’s relatable in that way, and I think he’s supposed to be. The thing about Odysseus is that he doesn’t get much reprieve from one wild story to the next (which is probably a literary device to nudge the story forwards rather than logging the seven years he spent willinglyish captive in a cinematic mashup of Calypso and the lotus eaters). He’s intermittently hungry, waterlogged, drugged, remorseful, and steadfast, making a very ping-pongy progress across the sea as he makes his way home. In many scenes he completely bedraggled, which I so relate to.

A friend recently asked me how I’m doing, and even though it’s an often reflexive thing we ask, this particular prod was genuine.

Microfunctional, was my answer.

I’m moving forwards(ish) across the Aegean Sea of Sadness, punctuated with some of the hiccups I might have anticipated ten years ago, and some horrors no one could have predicted (including that preview - I am serious). I’m not dysfunctional, I’m checking boxes and moving forwards and managing my collection of griefs in community. It’s the way. Through the writer’s block, digging into the crumbs of creativity I’ve still got.

I hope - if nothing else - this particular post has inspired you to hire me as a writing coach (lol!). As I’ve said, it’s not about the product, but the process, which in this case has required a lot of curating. Quiet house, sparkling water, a bag of nuts, and many, many different butt-in-seat ceremonies. My wish for you, for me, for all of us, is micro functions or better as we cross our own seas. Moments of grace amid the horrors, solidarity in story, and the steady whispers of those who keep urging us along, ready to welcome us home.

Thanks for reading, thanks for whispering,

K, the Lady-Bard