Fiction is Easier

& some updates about garbage and intensity

I’ve become shy in the last few years. This is probably because of Covid. Some sort of trauma response to being held captive for half a year and more; being afraid of social situations. I used to speak before thinking, and now I just think think think, uncertain what to say.

I’ve become sensitive to the words and thoughts of others. I want to make sure my friends and acquaintances feel heard, so I keep my mouth shut and listen. This sometimes comes off as awkward, and then I hate myself for being so awkward. Why can’t I just speak without fear? Why can’t I just go for it the way I did when I was younger? In social situations, I don’t always know what to say or what questions to ask. I’ve been trying to use my voice more but not overuse it.

Lately, this shows up in my creative life. I want to hold space for myself to shout my accomplishments. My mantra for the year is “step into your power.” I want to share what I’ve been doing, but I fear my work is unimpressive. I also fear what my friends and family may think of it.

In the world of creative nonfiction, there has been one constant conversation. How do writers ethically write about the people in their lives? I used to discount this question. Why was this always brought up with the nonfiction writers? I thought you wrote your truth and moved on, and the people in your lives just had to accept it. Some of you reading, are also people in my life, and I did not think writing about you would hurt you, but it could.

When I published my first ever story, “My First Sexy Halloween,” with Hobart back in March of 2020, I told a story about how I wore a sexy costume to school because my sister said it was a normal thing girls did. However, when I arrived, no one was dressed in sexy Halloween costumes. This lives like a canon event in my head, likely from all the embarrassment. It turns out, my sister also went home sick that day. I likely was angry at her about this and held onto this anger for a while. As a new writer publishing this first ever piece, I did not think about her. I thought of myself and tried to focus on my experience as much as possible. She texted me when she read it, something like “I was a real bitch.” And I responded with, “I didn’t think you were a bitch.” However, I must have written her like one. I also gave her no warning that this story would exist in the world, and I should have.

I wrote a new piece recently. It is published with Under the Gum Tree, and it is the first publication in print. On real paper. It is also about an experience I had with my father. I edited this 700-ish word piece from 2021 to 2025. Four years of writing and rewriting this two-hour experience. So brief. So much effort. Publishing it I feels more vulnerable than ever.

At first, I wrote with a little bit of anger and frustration. I was still angry with my father for leaving me when I was ten. This is an anger and a hurt I will carry until I get so much therapy that I stop letting it bother me. I have healed some since this happened. I am able to take care of myself and recognize the impulse to be wanted and loved and not feeling like enough. All my life, I wanted to be invited. I didn’t want to invite myself. My ultimate dream was to be discovered in a mall. I wanted someone to come up to me say “hey you, you got something special,” and finally everything would fall into place. This is a fantasy, but I see this recurring need. I want to still be discovered all the time.

As time went on revising this story, I sat aside my need to be seen and focused on what I was really trying to say. This was the first time I could see my father through my adult eyes. I listened rather than spoke. I had more empathy for him. With time, I was able to write the story referencing the hurt but allowing compassion for my father’s character. At least, I hope this is present.

I am afraid to shout about this publication victory because it feels tender. I am not sure if I should text my dad and send him a link. He hasn’t read my writing before, why would he now? But I’ve also not shared my work with him, probably intentionally because it feels like a special thing for myself. I want to share this story with my family, but it also deals with more difficult history than a Halloween costume. It references a shared grief I grew up with, but did not experience firsthand.

For now, I’ll try to speak. I’ll share. I may not shout. With time, I am hoping to be louder but also prepare my loved ones for the noise.

The statue of garbage in the stairwell is taking on new heights. The original piece was cleared away likely by the maintenance worker. For a few weeks, we tried to rebuild with small pieces: an eight of hearts from a card deck, the top of a soda can, a piece of dried grass, a sticker from a Hello Fresh bag, but this also was cleared away.

The most recent piece has stuck around for about a month because our neighbor attached some soda cans to an abandoned hanger and hung the sculpture on the back of the stairs. George gasped when he saw it. A beautiful surprise. A couple weeks later, George took my breath away by hanging a piece of plastic from the hanger attaching the top half of the art to the remnants on the ground. In addition to this, someone in the building ordered Cracker Barrel, and the Door Dasher left it by the elevator. No one touched it for days. Then the food was gone, and all that was left was a Coca Cola. I made the Coca Cola art. My hope is that it stays so long the whole thing evaporates.

Happy birthday to any Aries I know. Right now, it is Aries season and my birthday. Katia Krafft was also born on April 17, 1942. If you have not seen the documentary Fire of Love, you must. Katia Krafft and her husband Maurice are volcanologists. They study volcanoes and they get right up in them.

They seek the intensity of the fire, the magma, the danger; and they’re not afraid of it. At one point, Maurice says he would like to build a boat that can float down a lava river. During another scene, we watch him take a boat on an acid lake. Katia and Maurice want to live inside a volcano if they could. I watched this and I thought it was the most Aries shit I’d ever seen. Then I googled them and found out they are both Aries and Katia shares a birthday with me.

They die together. In 1991, Nagasaki Japan, from a pyroclastic flow. I was born in 1993.

I am pretty sure I am Katia Krafft reincarnate, still searching for the intensity.