The Swedish Inn That Doesn’t Exist

Last night I went to Sweden. Not on a plane with my passport in hand, and not with my bank account weeping at the cost of airfare. I just… slipped there. Outside of time and space, while I was sleeping.

I stayed in a little inn with a big dining room full of travelers. I ate potatoes and fish, simple but perfect, alongside flatbread with an herb-cheese spread that might honestly have been the best thing I’ve ever tasted, even though it only existed in a dream.

It felt real enough that when I woke up, my hands and feet were buzzing, as though I’d crossed some hidden border and only just re-entered my body. Real enough that the memory stayed with me all day, even while I was chewing my way through all my "get it done before the weekend" tasks. 

I thought about it while answering emails, while juggling client deadlines, while doing all the mundane things that make up real life. I even made a couple of quick renders of the meal, just to hold on to it and remember how it looked, smelled, and tasted before I forget forever. Looking at it now, I almost believe it was a memory.

The Travel I Never Had

I’ve never really been able to afford to travel. At least not in the sweeping, glamorous sense of hopping on planes and visiting countries whenever wanderlust strikes. I dreamed of it when I was younger and fully took it for granted that I'd do it one day. I thought my adulthood would be full of stamps on passports and photographs of me grinning like a demon with a secret in front of landmarks.

But adulthood didn’t go that way. At all. Adulthood has been a never-ending parade of bills, financial worries, and the grind of survival. Trips abroad were always out of reach, filed under “someday” and then quietly filed away again.

So maybe it makes sense that when my subconscious wants to give me the gift of travel, it does it in the most magical way possible. 

Portals, liminal spaces, places you can only get to by stepping outside of ordinary time. When I dream of London, I arrive through a strange terminal full of glowing doors. When I dream of islands, they appear where no reasonable map would place them. When I dream of Sweden, I don’t book a flight. I just arrive.

On Clay, Doors, and Faeries: The Tools I Received Before I Was Ready

Today is kind of a weird day, spiritually speaking. If you know me well, you may be somewhat aware that I've recently rediscovered my one-time interest in divination. Only it's different now that I'm older. 

When I was younger, I would discover interests, sometimes even acquire tools... and then not really do anything about them. Younger Me always felt like she was in some weird holding pattern. Like it wasn't time yet to really dig into a lot of the things that piqued her interest. Part of that had to do with the fact that I was too busy processing trauma to focus on much else. The rest really did just feel like me... waiting for something I couldn't quite identify. 

At my current age, I see things much differently. 

It's taken me most of my 49-year life to reach the same emotional maturity level most people were at by the time they were 30 or 35. So, I fully realize I don't have all the time in the world. I know that if I want to learn something, do something, or dive really deeply into something interesting, I need to do it now.

So, I got back into divination a while back, acquired some new tools, and started reading with them daily in the mornings to help set intentions for my day. I've also made a real effort to really learn the systems I've adopted and integrate them into my daily life, and it's been a game-changer. 

But I also have this treasure box of old divination systems and oracle decks that I acquired way back in the '90s when I was still really young. I hadn't felt much need to open that box at my current age and reintegrate anything in it, as I thought of those items as belonging to someone else –– someone I just wasn't anymore. 

Then last night, I dreamed I opened the box

In the dream, I took out a couple of select items, and I started to use them again. When I woke up, following suit in real life felt like the right way to start my morning, so I did that.

Opening that box and taking things out of it with the intention of loving them and using them again felt so strange. On one level, it really did feel like I was touching someone else's things –– maybe someone who had passed away a long time ago. But on another, I recognized these tools as old friends of mine that I hadn't seen in eons:

• A clay/pottery rune set from the '90s that was my very first divination system. The box was pretty beaten up, as I'd actually used this set a fair amount. And the burlap bag that held the runes had a mysterious stain on it, likely just from age. But the runes and guidebook by Horik Svensson were just as I remembered them and in pristine condition.
• An ancient Egypt-inspired oracle deck called The Book of Doors. I remember being deeply intrigued by this deck, but not using it much, as it was way too complex for me at that age. It is, however, right in line with where I am now.
• An oracle deck called The Faeries' Oracle, inspired by the artwork of Brian Froud, someone who was (and still is) a huge artistic and creative influence on me. It was never officially used, as I acquired it shortly before moving cross-country and leaving it behind.

So I washed the burlap bag by hand, nervous about the stain but unwilling to throw it away. And I did my morning reading with a combination of cards from The Book of Doors and The Faeries' Oracle. It was such a strange feeling, starting my day with these relics from my own past. But it also felt like reconnecting with something valuable that I thought had been lost to time and age.

The Soundtrack of Right Now: 5 Songs I've Been Grooving to Lately

I almost always listen to music in the mornings to help wake my mind up and get my blood flowing. But today’s soundtrack isn’t just background noise.

It’s a living, breathing presence in the room with me. It's flowing into my ears through the Cali Roots Festival live stream on YouTube, and also on the wind through my open window, as we're lucky enough to live just down the street from the venue.

We call that specific phenomenon “music on the wind” in this house. A beautiful proximity gift that makes us feel like the sky itself is humming a tune we know by heart. 

There’s something especially magical about these kinds of days. Not because anything profound is happening, but because sometimes the right soundtrack leaves your entire environment vibrating in harmony. The incense smoke is curling upward at just the right angle. The sky outside is striking a perfect balance of sunny and cloudy. 

Summer's not officially here yet, but you can tell it's just down the street and around the corner. And the free concert is reminding me of how important the music I love really is to me. Today, yes, but also every day. On that note, here are five songs (and their spirits) that feel especially like me lately. 

1. "Home" - Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros

If my personal version of grounded joy were a song, it would probably be this one. It's the kind of song that makes you sway without meaning to. Feet rooted, spirit light. You don’t need to get up. You just feel better because it’s playing. Spotify often tosses it onto some of my curated walking-themed and "happy" playlists, and it always has a way of playing at exactly the right time.

What I Make When I'm Not Trying to Impress Anyone

At dinner last night, Seth and I had one of those conversations that really linger. The kind where you find yourself still turning it over in your mind the next day, like a stone you can’t stop touching. 

We were talking about creativity, specifically how freeing it can feel to create outside of the intention to impress anyone else. Not your audience. Not your peers. Not even yourself, but simply for its own sake. It reminded me of what it was like to be a kid, long before I knew a damn thing about coolness, trends, or social media algorithms. 

I didn’t wonder whether something I wanted to make was worth my time or care whether I had permission from the right people to do it in the first place. I just made things. And then sometimes I showed them to other people with unshakeable pride, never even considering that they might not think it was any good.

Bad poetry. Weird Lincoln Log creations. Silly stories about my toys that almost certainly contained way too many references to farts and burps. A set of homemade mini-books about my family and friends, hand-illustrated and lovingly "bound" with construction paper and staples. They were definitely the creations of a little kid still figuring life out. And they were glorious.

Naturally, I wouldn't submit a childhood story full of fart jokes to a literary journal today or expect an award for the god-awful poem I wrote about my purple digital bedside clock when I was ten years old. But those creations still stick in my mind today because of the sheer creative joy I felt while making them. 

Somewhere along the way, most of us lose that. And that's a real shame.

How the Fear Creeps In

As children, most of us are just like I used to be –– energetic, bright-eyed little people who create simply because it feels good. Or because we have something to express and don’t yet know how to hold it in (or see why we should try). If an adult liked what we made, it was a bonus. But it was never the point.

Then adolescence arrives with its comparisons and self-consciousness. Later, adulthood adds even more pressure to the whole sordid mess. Can this make money? Is this good enough to share? Am I still relevant? Why even bother when the internet is already littered with other people's art, essays, songs, and opinions?

The impulse to create gets all tangled up in the desire to matter. Before we know it, we've become people who need our work to be beautiful, interesting, and true, but also seen. Liked. Heartily approved of. Maybe even purchased. And while none of those desires are inherently wrong, they can easily crowd out the spark that made someone want to create in the first place.

When Time Stops Pretending It Was Gentle

The funny thing about aging is that you never actually feel time pass. You feel the things that occupy your consciousness for the most part, instead –– love, frustration, desire, and fatigue. You feel small but important details, like your favorite meals, the way your hair still won't behave in the humidity, and the weight of your favorite jacket on your shoulders. 

Then one day, you open a photo album or an old digital folder. You're instantly given pause. If you were a character in a movie, this is totally the moment where you'd hear that record scratch noise. 

Because a photo does a lot more than just show you what you looked like at a particular point in time. It shows you what you used to be... and it shows you what you no longer are, as well. You may see shades of who you’ve grown into and what you’ve had to let go of to get where you are. You remember the hopes you had in that moment that didn’t quite play out. The joy you didn’t realize you radiated. The pain you masked with a smile you now recognize as a little too careful.

That’s the strange power of still images in action. In a way, they actually collapse time. You go from experiencing subtle, unnoticeable change on a day-to-day basis to staring straight into the unfiltered truth of who you once were. And suddenly, all that change feels immediate. It's sharp, and sometimes even a little cruel.

My mother reminded me of an old photo from my 20s a while ago

It was from when I first got together with my partner 20 years ago, and just the experience of looking at it felt weird. It made me realize that while I reflect on my 20s a lot, I rarely actually see them with total clarity.

But there she was in the picture –– a completely different version of me, even though I would have told you five minutes before that moment that I hadn't changed that much. 

The hair I've always dyed red was five shades darker, because the hair underneath hadn't gone white yet. I hadn't truly noticed it getting lighter over the years because of the dye, but it really had. My skin was smoother, and my eyes were brighter. I definitely wished I were still as "fat" now as I know I thought I was back then. 

But what struck me most wasn’t what was different physically. It was more the emotional differences I knew were there by looking at things like my posture and my facial expression.

There was a kind of unearned certainty in Other Shannon's face. An undamaged expectation that life would be fair, and decent, and good from then on, because that's what the movies tell you is supposed to happen when you're young, smart, and pretty. She was totally confident that some big, beautiful future was not only possible, but inevitable. 

A Soft Time Machine: Reflections on the Movies We Love

Garden State (2004) - Courtesy of Fox Searchlight

I think movies are like portals to a lot of us when we're children –– opportunities to step out of our little-kid lives with all their frustrating limitations for a moment and explore the world on a larger scale. Then we get older. We acquire adult worries and responsibilities. Society convinces us that escaping into our imaginations this way should be less of a priority. And we forget.

For some reason, I never quite made that tradition the way I was "supposed to."

Yes, I'm an adult. Despite deliberately avoiding certain types of responsibility, I've still managed to accumulate my due share with big, heavy adult-level worries to match. But I never stopped seeing movies as magic gateways to another version of the world that often made more sense to me than the real one did.

Garden State is one of many movies I feel that way about as a middle-aged adult, and I just so happen to have it on in the background as I write this. Like a lot of my fellow Gen Xers, I first saw this film in my 20s and processed it a certain way.

That version of me was still just getting started on her adult life. She was still the type of person who could feel entirely original again by doing something weird, spontaneous, and random. But she also wanted to be the type of woman someone would dive into a pool for, despite not knowing how to swim. 

I also recall relating to the feeling of gazing into an infinite abyss on a rainy day with a long, sprawling future ahead of me that was still nothing but a question mark. I loved knowing that you never know what's at the bottom of such an abyss. It could be anything, including something amazing that you haven't even dreamed about yet.

I notice different things about the film as a full-grown adult who's only a sneeze away from 50 at this point. My future isn't much of a question mark anymore, although that may just be part of the illusion that comes with "getting old." But I still relate to the idea of wanting something meaningful that you can't quite define, even if you don't have a name for it or know how to ask for it. 

Apparently, that's not something you ever outgrow. It just changes shape while staying two steps ahead of you. One way stories can grow and evolve with you, continuing to meet you where you are, no matter how old you become.

The Tangerine Star of Tunisia Road

They say that seven is the age of reason –– the age when you're old enough to start truly developing a sense of self. This makes sense to me, as my memories from that age (and just after) are among some of my most poignant and vivid, even if I'm not entirely sure why. 

There was a street lamp on the corner of Tunisia Road where we lived on post after we first moved to California, just a few steps away from our little home. Our house was the kind of house everyone in the military gets when they're lucky –– comfortable but also forgettable enough that you didn't even realize you were supposed to forget it.

But at that age, everything still seemed magical and sacred. My room wasn't just an ordinary room in an ordinary house. It was the hallowed sanctum where I spent hours organizing my toys and brushing my dolls' hair. It was my first little office and creative studio, the place where I first fell in love with drawing with my pencils and typing up stories on the old, secondhand typewriter my parents had given me for the purpose.

I was used to military life, so I technically knew the house and my place in it were temporary. But somehow that didn't matter. When you're only seven or eight, even a summer feels like an eternity, so a change that was still probably years in the future felt like something to worry about in some other lifetime. 

In the meantime, I had living to do, stories to write, and that street lamp to dream underneath.

It was just an ordinary street lamp on an ordinary suburban street corner. But what I remember most is the way it stood tall and strange, like a metal flower that waited all day to bloom at dusk. That's when the soft, orange glow of evening flickered to life, and it always felt like something sacred had been summoned.

Where the World Began: A Reflection

When I was little, yellow school buses simply didn't exist. I'd only ever seen them on TV, full of laughing children who somehow seemed excited about the idea of going to school, and everyone knew the things you saw on TV were just make-believe.

The bus that arrived to pick me up on my very first day as a little student was olive green. 

Like everything on the military base where my family and I lived, it was the drab, sober color of my father's fatigues. The color of creeping lichen on unfriendly trees –– always a sure sign you were straying too far from home. The color of the musty mildew that sometimes grew in the basement when it got damp.

My mother had insisted school was supposed to be fun –– something I should be excited for –– but I knew better. I knew only too well that school was part of the World, and that the bus was the alien chariot that would take me there against my wishes and better judgment. 

From what I could tell, other kids were curious about the World, and they loved to talk about all the things they would one day do, be, and become out there. But I felt differently. I saw the World for what it surely was –– something huge, limitless even, and terrifying. Something unfriendly and cold that would swallow me whole and eventually make it so I'd never have anything to smile about ever again.

I didn't trust it. I didn't want to be part of it, and I didn't understand why my parents would insist on sending me out into a place like that alone, even if it were just for the day. 

On Little House and Fading Memories

So, somehow Seth and I have become utterly obsessed with Little House on the Prairie lately. I recently signed us up for a Peacock subscription because it was the only place you could watch that Yellowstone show we thought might be cool. Then we get on there, don't actually watch Yellowstone, and start shooting this shit up on a nightly basis instead. I'm almost embarrassed to admit to how much of a blast I've been having, as I'm not sure I scan as much of a "good, clean family fun" kind of person to those who actually know me. 

I've never actually seen the show before, as it debuted two years before I was even born and went off the air before I was old enough to care much about TV shows that weren't also cartoons. I have read the Little House books multiple times throughout my life, including several times as a grown-ass adult, because I'm a kid at heart like that. Seth's been wanting to introduce me to this for a while for those reasons, as he knew I would like it.

Watching this brings back so many of the thoughts and feelings I used to have when I'd read the books as a little girl. They were a form of wish fulfillment for me for sure, especially regarding how I felt a family should look, behave, and treat one another. I wanted so badly for my parents to love each other the way Charles and Caroline did. And I wanted my brother and me to love and look out for each other the way the Ingalls sisters did. I remember relating strongly to Laura with how tomboyish she was, as well. 

On How Holidays Evolve Over the Years

Declaration of Independence (1818) - John Trumbull

I think I've realized a little something about Independence Day over the past week or so, planning for it and all. It's just not the same holiday to me that it used to be when I was a little girl. The majority of the reasons why are a mixture of personal and general. The rest may just be about having grown up a little bit over the years. It doesn't seem like anything much is exactly the same to me at 45 as it was when I was little or even just still young. 

To begin with, a lot of what made the 4th special is just plain off the table for us at this point for reasons beyond our control. With the way climate change has made wildfires such a massive issue in the summers here, the city doesn't do fireworks displays anymore. It's been decades since I actually went anywhere specifically to watch the fireworks, but sometimes I could still see them in the sky over the back fence. I didn't mind sitting outside with Seth a while when I was in the mood, trying to catch a glimpse of the pretty colors, smelling the cordite, and reminiscing about how magical the 4th of July seemed when I was a kid.

We almost always used to grill, but we don't even do that anymore -- also because of the fires. I used to love the smell of a barbecue grill, a wood-burning fireplace, or things burning in general. Now when I smell something -- anything -- burning, it no longer signals thoughts of coziness, fun, safety, and good times. It means danger. It makes me scared I'm going to have to spend the next week or two checking for evacuation alerts every two seconds and barely being able to see without the lights on because the sky is weird and orange in the middle of the day.

On Lana Del Rey and the Beauty of Melancholy

So, Lana Del Rey dropped a new album a few days ago -- Chemtrails Over the Country Club. I've been listening to it quite a lot since, as well as revisiting some of Lana's other music. I've also been having some interesting thoughts about music in general, the role it's played throughout my life, and the effects it has on me still. 

Lana Del Rey's music occupies a strange category for me. It evokes strong feelings of nostalgia and reminds me of all kinds of things despite not also being music I grew up listening to. 

She wasn't even around as an artist when I was still growing up, as she would have been just a child herself. However, her style as an artist and much of the imagery in her music reminds me of how I felt, thought, and took up space in the world way back then. The fact that the beach and many references to life in California come up often in her music underscores all this even further.

When I was young, I had so many strong emotions. Many of them were difficult, dark, and consuming -- like longing, melancholy, and restlessness. Life was difficult for me as a young person, and it took me until I was in my 20s to start coming into my own. But I had an incredibly rich fantasy life at that age, as well. I was always obsessed with some boy I knew, or occasionally I'd construct elaborate fantasies around actors (and even fictional characters) I found objectively attractive. I'd daydream about what I'd be like when I was older -- painfully, sorrowfully beautiful and, of course, so very deep -- as well as all the tumultuous, passionate romances I was sure I would one day have. 

One of my favorite things to do was indulge in these fantasies and wonder what my life would eventually be like while listening to music. If I could be outside taking up space in some beautiful setting while I did it, so much the better. I especially loved going on long nature walks, hanging out on the beach while watching the waves, and spacing out in the passenger seat on long road trips while watching the world go by. I never felt very connected to my family, my friends, or most of the men I dated when I was in my teens and early-mid 20s, so maintaining this sort of rich inner life seemed to fulfill some of the needs those relationships didn't. 

On the Origins of My Life as a Writer

Julianne Moore as Evelyn Ryan -- The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio (2005)

I've had people ask me in the past whether I always knew I wanted to be a writer because of how much I talk about loving what I do, but truth be told? Not really. I was considered gifted as a child, and I was good at a lot of different things. But for some reason, no one seemed to think writing was my most impressive skill. I did write a lot and enjoy it, but I got a lot more attention for being good at drawing and painting, so most of the authority figures in my life figured I'd grow up to be an artist.

I actually turned out to be one of those gifted kids who never really belong anywhere or gel well with anyone. I'm not what you'd call a team player, and I've always had a reputation for being downright weird. I'm nice enough, but I also don't necessarily like being around people. I'm introverted, highly solitary, and will typically choose to be by myself unless I get along unusually well with someone. I've also never really been what you'd call ambitious. I've always preferred to just stay home and hated anything that required me to be anywhere else for very long, including school and pretty much any traditional working environment.

I tried a few different jobs on for size in my 20s, including vet teching -- the job my mother wanted me to have. I also found most of the things I tried intolerable because of the weird hours and excessive overtime I was expected to put in. I spent most of my 20s working retail for that reason. I detested all the people contact and forced cheerfulness, of course, but the hours were at least flexible, and if I worked on commission, I could afford to pay my bills working only four days a week.

On Channeling My Inner Carrie Bradshaw

Seth and I finished rewatching The Tudors and are now heavy into a rewatch of Sex and the City. We were really into this show when we first got together years and years ago at this point, so this is bringing back a lot of fond memories. However, so much about it hits completely different these days. For one thing, some of the episodes have aged a lot more gracefully than others. I'm also processing the vast majority of the characters and plotlines a lot differently now that I'm only a couple of weeks away from my 45th birthday. 

Sometimes remembering my 20s -- the way I thought, the things I enjoyed, and everything I thought I wanted out of life -- is like remembering someone else's life. I never would have thought back then that I'd grow into someone with such simple needs and wants. For instance, I wouldn't necessarily spit on the opportunity to travel or explore the world if it came my way at this point, but it's not something I can't imagine my life without anymore. The same cannot be said for things like home-cooked dinners at home with my partner or large, quiet chunks of time to write and create things.

When I first discovered Sex and the City as an idealistic, energetic 20-something, I related a lot to Carrie. But it was mostly because she was quirky, restless, and plagued by relationship troubles. Like Carrie, I thought I was commitment-oriented, but I never seemed to be happy anytime I was actually in a relationship. I also had more trouble being faithful to people than I like to admit. Any little thing that went wrong in my relationships was more than enough to inspire me to dump a partner or -- at the very least -- start looking over their shoulder for someone else. This time around, I no longer relate to this side of Carrie. I do remember what it was like to feel that way, but that's about it.

Reflections on Life After Watching Disney-Pixar's Soul

I finally got to see the new Disney-Pixar movie the other night -- Soul. Being the giant, overgrown kid-at-heart I am, I get very excited about new Disney films as a rule, but I was extra eager to see this one. Not only does it have a Black lead and contain many references to Black culture -- something I'm happy to be seeing in more media -- but jazz music is an integral part of the film's theme, as well. I've come to love jazz, especially as I get older and increasingly excited about different kinds of music.

I liked the film very much in general. Still, I especially enjoyed its primary message about the concept of life purpose and how it addressed many common questions people have on the subject. 

• What does it mean to have a life purpose?
• Is your purpose about your profession of choice or something else entirely?
• What does it really feel like to finally realize your most significant, dearest goals in life?
• Where do little pleasures and daily experiences fit into the picture?
• Is it possible not to have a purpose, and what happens if that's the case for you?

At nearly 45, I've managed to answer many of those questions for myself, but it took me a while. Joe was my favorite character, so I'd love to say I was just like him -- maybe a little misguided, but always sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I'm really the spitting image of Soul 22, though. 

Like 22, I believed that I didn't have a life purpose for an extremely long time, especially when I was younger. While everyone else my age seemed to know exactly what they wanted to do with their lives, nothing seemed to resonate with me at all. I did know I enjoyed being creative -- drawing, writing, playing piano, and the like -- but there was no way to turn those things into stable livings that actually appealed to me back then. I didn't want to put on a suit and design logos for some soulless corporate entity or settle for teaching schoolchildren about the things I wanted to be doing myself. I especially disliked the idea of having to commute to an office every day.

On Independence and Self-Discovery

"Are you happy, or are you pretending to be happy?"

We watched this movie a few days ago -- Swallow. It's about a young, pregnant housewife named Hunter (Haley Bennett) who's struggling with certain feelings. This is a life she once thought she wanted, and that would make her happy, but -- as can often be the case -- the reality isn't quite measuring up to expectations. Her husband doesn't take her at all seriously and barely sees her as a person. Hunter especially doesn't seem all that thrilled to be pregnant. It's clear she feels like the walls are closing in on her and that something's got to give soon.

One day, Hunter gives in to an odd, sudden urge she has to swallow a marble. For reasons she can't quite understand, the act makes her feel empowered, possibly for the first time in her life. She eventually swallows other objects, some of them quite dangerous. Before she knows it, she has a full-fledged habit on her hands, her husband and in-laws find out, and strife ensues. From there, the film becomes about Hunter's struggle to feel like an important player in her own life and chronicles her attempts to get there. The film was really very good and gives you lots to think about.

Much about Hunter's situation reminds me of how it felt to be married to my first husband, Greg. I was very young at the time -- much younger than Greg -- and I didn't have the luxury of being a housewife (although that is something I thought I wanted.) I definitely didn't develop the urge to swallow marbles and thumbtacks. However, Hunter's feelings of inadequacy were very familiar to me. Like Hunter, I was surrounded by people who considered my feelings and needs to be unimportant compared to everyone else's. I disagreed. 

Not Just Another Bloody Mary

"Sea of Thoughts" -- Lindsay Rapp

Why do I do this -- forget about regularly hashing out my thoughts and recording my life in a format more substantial than a tweet or a Facebook status update? It's my knee-jerk reaction to say I've just gotten too lazy about my personal writing, but there are other times where I'm aware that maybe I just don't "need" journaling to the same extent I used to. I may finally be growing up in a way I once thought I never could or would. A possibility that is both wonderful and sad all at the same time.

Since I last updated this past March, my life has continued along the same path for better or worse. Things are still very much the same with my mother, her health, and her apparent lack of desire to regain her independence. That depresses me deeply, if I'm going to be very honest. So many people would have loved to receive the second chance she got, but will never get it. Meanwhile, she's just wasting hers. Growing fatter, lazier, and more complacent by the day. No effort made to repair anything in her life, including all of her broken relationships.

I'm still working very hard to be different from that. When I was a little girl, I used to look forward to summer vacations just like every other kid. However, I loved spending mine improving myself for some reason. Summers were a time for me to see how many books I could read, draw all the pictures I could, learn new symphonies on the piano, and undertake all sorts of fun little personal writing projects. Lately, I feel like I'm that little girl again, only all of the time, as opposed to just over the summers. I'm voraciously hungry for self-improvement again, and I am loving every second of it. Especially since I can finally tackle all these little challenges I set for myself with the focus of a 40-something. It's a really interesting combination of energies and one that is very new to me.

"I'll See You Again in 25 Years..."

Romy and Michelle were my spirit animals back then.

My 25-year high school reunion is apparently coming up. How that could be, I don't know. On the one hand, high school really does feel like a lifetime ago, but on the other, I truly don't feel like it's a literal quarter-century in the past. Part of me wishes I could say that I'm going, but I'm pretty realistic with myself and with others these days as far as what can be expected of me socially.

Years ago, after I'd graduated but while high school was still really fresh in my mind, I used to fantasize about going to one of these damned things at some point and just blowing everyone right the fuck away. (Think Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion, but without the best friend.) But then my 10-year rolled around at a point where, much like Romy or Michelle, I was really worried about how my life might look from the outside looking in. I looked really good and I wasn't saddled with a million kids the way so many other people from my graduating class were, but I was still working retail -- something I was very ashamed of at the time, especially considering how smart I was always considered to be. Plus I was still married to Greg, not to mention profoundly unhappy with the marriage by 2004 or so. The person that he was embarrassed me deeply, and I was ashamed of myself for settling for a relationship that didn't meet a single one of my personal needs.

I didn't want to have to face these people and tell them that. That the smart, creative "whiz kid" everyone thought was going places ultimately wound up selling shoes at Macy's and was married to some weird, boring man who was old enough to be her father. Not only did I skip the reunion entirely because of those things, but I remember living in constant fear of running into people I used to know around town, because I didn't want them to see how my life had turned out.

On Inner Peace and Progress

Every so often, it occurs to me that I'm actually a lot more satisfied with myself and my life than I tend to think I am most of the time. It's pretty much impossible to sell me things I don't really want or need and I don't fall for the same bullshit schemes other people seem to lap up just like it's mother's milk. I don't wish I was a different person or dream of living a radically different life one day. Not anymore. There's definitely always room for improvement, of course, but I'm also pretty content with who I am and with how I fill my days. Anything I'm not currently satisfied with is either temporary or something I'm actively working to change for myself.

My recent disenchantment with so many of my old friends has found me trying to make some new ones that share some of my current interests and values. I found a few Facebook groups to join and contribute to that seemed promising. I've also been attempting to actually talk to people that seem personable. As a result, I've had a few superficial "let's get to know each other" chats with some new folks I've met and I've noticed something about the way I speak about myself and my life. I speak with confidence and pride about my accomplishments, my relationship, and the person I've worked hard to become. That's a far cry from how I used to talk about myself in the now distant past -- very carefully, as I was constantly worried that the truth of my life would seem as pathetic to other people as it did to me.

On Stories, Fact, and Fiction

Prompt: "What are your favorite types of stories?"

I've been reading and writing so long, that I legitimately can't remember a time in my life when I didn't do those things. It only stands to reason that I've fallen in love with all kinds of stories over the years -- everything from fairy tales and epic adventures to high-brow literary fiction. However, I think the stories I like most these days are the ones that are anchored in reality to at least some extent.

It doesn't have to be a straight up non-fiction story or anything, but it's nice if it's at least inspired by events, people, places, or ideas from the author's actual life. I like knowing that that person is sharing little bits of their world with their readers. A given story just doesn't really feel "complete" to me without that.

That's been the case for me since I was a kid. Even when I reached for my fairy tale books, the experience of enjoying them was only partly about being entertained by the story itself. My favorite part of the process was actually learning the origins of those tales and the meanings behind them. I absolutely loved annotated versions of different books for that reason. I know it seems weird to imagine a 10-year-old being interested in the cultural context of Hansel and Gretel or in being able to identify the political satire in Alice in Wonderland, but that's the kind of child I was. I liked reading stories and then picking them apart afterward so I could fully understand what I'd just read.

On the Merry-Go-Round of the Past

Normally, I don't truly understand why other people seem to think I'm so young for my age. I almost always just blame it on my youthful looks and the fact that I don't really choose clothing, hairstyles, or make-up that would be considered age appropriate. Then something will happen that shows me it's probably more than that. I'm realizing that I still act young and think young for someone that's 40 years old. I'm also realizing that it's not necessarily a bad thing.

For instance, I don't get nostalgic over dead technology the way a lot of people my age do. I don't think tapes and CDs are superior to digital music and streaming. I don't wistfully sigh and think back fondly on the days when people shared a landline and some dial-up Internet with the rest of their family instead of having their own cell phones and devices. Why would I? Today's technology is so much better, more accessible, and more convenient than the shit I grew up with.

Sure, at the time all of that seemed pretty cool, but it was the best, most innovative technology that was available at the time as well. Sure, I still like listening to a lot of the same bands I liked growing up, but I love that I can listen to perfect, pristine-quality versions of their albums on Spotify now instead of having to pop a plastic disc into some clunky old player. Honestly, if I were still single and dating someone my age? I would probably reconsider them if they were still making mix tapes and burning CDs. It's just a silly thing to do in a day and age when there are better, more efficient alternatives.