In Progress

When my cousin turned 25, we laid out on the boathouse dock and watched the Perseids interrupt the same old sky.

"Do you have any goals for this year?" I asked her.

"I don't know." She turned to me with wide, scared eyes. "I didn't ever think I'd make it this far. I didn't make a plan."

I'm a terminal dropper. My apartment is filled with half-done projects - a windowsill garden growing weaker by the day, one-and-a-half knitted socks in a bag, a broken plate with a kintsugi kit beside it. My laptop is much the same, filled nearly to the brim with projects I refuse to call abandoned. They aren't. They just need to wait their turn.

My process is this:

1. I go into the world with a strong feeling
2. I see something striking that directly opposes my mood
3. I write a paragraph that sings and connects the dots
4. I write two that suck
5. I put the project away

And then I go back into the world with those words like popcorn kernels in my microwave mind. I read a book, I watch TV, I go to work. And while I stir a pot or pour a panna cotta, I let my mind hum. Maybe three days later, maybe three years later, these words will POP! inside me and my eyes will widen. My jaw will drop. My fingers will itch for a pen.

That's when I'm ready to write.

Last year was the year of POP! I began 2023 with a simple resolution: get eyes on my work. I had a Vocal subscription, hardly used, and I had talent, hardly used. It was time to connect the dots and let go of the fear that kept me hoarding all my little gems.

I wrote some, commented some, met people, enjoyed the ride. I especially liked the challenges - a surprise, because rules and tight timeframes have never been my friends. But turns out, if you give me a deadline and a direction to go, I can turn in some funky stuff.

I was having fun, and writing more than I anticipated. Some of my tucked-away seeds began bursting, overflowing my bowl. Even more stories came together quickly, slapdash and carefree, eschewing my standard 2-3 business years of lag time. It's as L.C. Schäfer wrote in her marvelous challenge entry: "Writing begets writing."

Then, POP! I started winning challenges.

There's a line from my first winning story that now resonates uncomfortably within me. I wrote The Trick for the Broken Mirror Challenge. Fresh off a binge-read rabbit hole of some influencer scandal I no longer remember, and mid-reread of The Picture of Dorian Gray, the challenge got my motor running. What poured out over two days was an ode to the duality of the self, a dark critique of influencer culture, and really good writing.

As I strutted back to my seat at the bar, I felt eyes trace me from around the room. What felt even better was the buzz from my purse, as my story caught reactions like flies in honey.

Now, as I reread that line, I feel the mirror turned on me. As much as I love the content I produce, I can't deny my vanity. I love the attention. I love the money. I love the validation of that little badge on my profile. Sometimes, I'm scared I love it more than I love writing itself. I wonder if I would have had such a banner year on Vocal if I hadn't come in fourth for that challenge and received nine whole hearts for my first 'successful' story.

(One of which was my mother's. Hi, Mom!)

I won't bore you with the statistics of - oh, you want them? If you insist. Last year, I...

• wrote over 60,000 words across 53 stories
• gained 150 followers
• accumulated almost 2,000 reads
• had 11 Top Stories
• submitted entries to 27 challenges, and placed in five (outright winning two, which you can find pinned to my profile)
• won first place in the Vocal Writing Award's Science-Fiction category
• made well over the median author's expected yearly earnings from writing on Vocal alone (which sounds impressive, but I assure you is not nearly enough to live on)

Whew. I'm tired.

After I won the VWA, I logged off from Vocal for most of November and December. I didn't mean to. But I felt dry creatively, and I still feel a little ashamed of the pride I carry for my accomplishments. Most of all, I feel like my cousin on the dock or a cat up a tree: I didn't think I'd make it this far, and I didn't make a plan for what comes next.

How rude of Vocal, then, to ask me: What now?

I've cataloged my pride and discomfort, taken stock of the quantity and quality of my work, and I'm pleased. In 2024, I don't want to focus on my metrics and gamify my craft. I don't want to pin my hopes and dreams on courting subscribers or winning a nod from a faceless judge. I want to write well and write often. I want to do it for myself. And as for Vocal? This year...

1. I will revisit my hibernating hoard: I have a long list of drabbles on my phone and a fat folder of unfinished works on my laptop. They deserve to be finished, and they deserve to be read. One of them, I've already posted after three years in the works.
2. I will publish at least 52 stories: Though I'd like that to mean I won't take another hiatus, I know myself better. I don't control the POP! and sometimes I need to lick a wound or refill the well. But if I can open my 2024 Reverb and pretend I posted a story a week, I'll feel pretty accomplished.
3. I will give more than I take: I will comment more than I post, engage in positive conversations with our community, and provide others with the type of encouragement that feeds me.

If you're still with me now, faithful reader, I commit these things to you, and I thank you.

Thank you for reading, thank you for liking, thank you for commenting, thank you for voting. Thank you for helping me, a work in progress, hone my craft. And thank you for revealing yourself in your writing, and inviting me to join you.