Time has passed. It is strange how it really does go faster as one ages. Months are starting to feel like weeks… Please forgive my neglect.

In my virtual absence, a couple of things that have usurped my time and attention.

Reading

I won’t link to Amazon or reviews as I have previously, but I’ve been keeping up with a novel or two a week this year. A bunch that I’ve loved (since the last time I fanboy’d):

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. I have a deep love of play in historical structures. I can’t seem to bring myself back to the keyboard, but my retro-speculative-fiction brain is still churning and this book sets the bar.

Orbital by Samantha Harvey. Great meditation on humanity.

Lanny by Max Porter. Not an easy book to start, but brilliant.

Exit West by Mohsin Hamid. A remarkably empathic and grounded take on current global existence.

Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill. Relationships are tough, y’know. The torture and neurosis of living within uncertainty and banality.

Also, I’ve been loving the Anthony Jeselnik Book Club. He’s not everyone’s cup of tea as a stand-up but his book choices have been on point so far. Not traditional choices: car crashes, not tea and crumpets.

Swimming

I swam from Nevis to Saint Kitt’s last month with SwimTrek. It was a really well-organized event and a fun swim. I swam over turtles and rays, could sight the bottom the whole way. Weather was wonderful and some good swells to fight against. The islands aren’t easily negotiated so there was lots of travel time back and forth. Also, there’s not so much culture outside tourist-oriented bars and resort-life, but the event itself and the people were first-class.

In order to train for that (and potentially a few longer events coming up…) I’ve been using the Form 2 goggles and enjoy them. I’ve always been a math-swimmer, counting and dividing my lengths as I go through a workout. It’s nice do what I’m told and it’s pushed me in terms of pacing and different workout structures. So far they’ve been kicking my ass through AI puppetry.

Am I cool now?

No spoilers, but this season of the The Pitt has had a few Emergency Psychiatry storylines with a big shift for a character in the season finale. Frankly, I don’t think that character is very good at what she did this season, but I’d take her passion and interest in a heartbeat. There’s lots to process there, but it’s kind of shocking to have one of the most likable characters on the world’s most popular show give a shoutout for a very conflictual specialty. Emergency Psychiatry is often the opposite of the typical narrative of “mental health” treatment. It puts safety and diagnosis over comfort and consumer-control. To be called out on that stage, I have to imagine will have repercussions yet to come…can we expect a Scully effect for emergency mental health? Let’s dream!

On that note, I wrote a pilot twelve years ago called “Shrinks” about a group of psychiatry residents starting their PGY-2 year. It was kind of The Pitt meets Scrubs meets gothic. Admittedly, it hasn’t aged perfectly, but it was somewhere out there on the The Blacklist. Otherwise it’s degrading the cloud somewhere. Noah Wyle, John Wells, if you’re looking for someone to launch a spin-off…hit me up, brahs!

About a hundred years ago, I saw Dave Gorman‘s Googlewhack Adventure live. It’s been uploaded to YouTube and worth a watch. It is a relic of a different time, one in which Google would occasionally have almost nothing to show you…

Last week I was in Greece swimming (Patmos, SwimTrek, highly recommend) and I wanted suggestions for sights, food, etc. Back in the day, these here blog things used to be the lifeline–some ex-pat who’d lived in Greece for ten years would spout off their favorite dives and tavernas.

Not. Any. More.

I had to scroll through AI consolidated reviews from Tripadvisor and Google that made everything sound mediocre. “Diner say that…” “Most customer think…” I don’t even know if anyone else has a blog anymore or if they’re all Substack subscriptions and Patreon pleas. But Oh Reader, there was a time before podcasts where putting a few thoughts about souvlaki and ambiance on a global bulletin board was greatly appreciated.

So, about this dinosaur of a webpage…I may consider it an act of resistance going forward.

Ddo I have anything to say? Just a little. My two-year writing hiatus continues sadly uninterrupted (although I do have a new idea percolating). I have been reading a lot lately and took on a new challenge. After reading Time Shelter this summer, I realized that I’d never read a Bulgarian writer before. From there, I realized that there were dozens of countries whose literature I had not seen on the “Books We Can’t Wait To Read This Season” or “100 Best Books Ever!” lists. It turns out that there is a website for this, but I decided to read a book from each. It’s really about filling in holes, but Albania, Angola, Antigua are done…Andorra, Armenia, Azerbaijan are on deck. It’s arbitrary, but why the hell not?

And along that line…

7 Books that I’ve Really Enjoyed This Year (The Last Will Completely Shock You!)

Blackouts. Erasure presented on so many levels that content and form are inextricable. Incredible.

Perfection. This book captured something what I hadn’t articulated to myself previously–these cultural shifts that have occurred over the last decade (interest in cooking as an example), occurred simultaneously across the globe but had no precedent. We have all started caring or ignoring things, shifting attention without choice. Ubiquitous unconscious shifts in taste, values, culture. Terrifying.

Colored Television. Hilarious writing, fascinating topic. She definitely has an eye for people.

On the Calculation of Volume (I,II) I’ve pre-ordered the next two. Meditative.

Biue Ruin. Very well-constructed and drawn. Living as art form.

10:04. Whose best line is a doozy: Shaving is a way to start the workday by ritually not cutting your throat when you’ve the chance. The Topeka School was great as well.

Don Quixote. This was my third go-round, first time by audiobook and I couldn’t have enjoyed it more. The world would be a very different place if Quixote had been the cornerstone of English literature instead of Spanish. I have a feeling that everything I love about Bolano, Borges, Marquez can be traced to Cervantes as the rule-breaker of fiction (long before there were rules). By contrast, didn’t the rest of “western” literature evolve from hegemonic realism?

A year has passed since I last wrote something here, or more precisely, anywhere other than in a patient’s chart, griping email, or terse text. After the intensity of the MFA program, and the subsequent year of trying to maintain that momentum and dedication to my craft, I’ve become so utterly turned off my own thoughts and ideas that I’ve tried (unsuccessfully) to take a vacation from myself.

In doing so, the echoes of a hundred craft books and lecturers echo through my head about the need for routine, the importance of ass-in-chair, the never-ending font of creativity that one simply drinks from and it refills. I tried the morning pages, the scheduled writing days, the writing prompts and writing challenges–all manners of ways to fan the spark and re-invigorate–unfortunately, to minimal satisfaction. So, instead, I’m taking a cue from Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, accepting that if my ideas have merit they may be birthed by others and not me, but that rather than feel the constant guilt/shame of not creating, I am consciously abstaining.

For a long time, when I haven’t been writing, guilt (and envy) ruin my experience of reading and theater. Opening a book becomes a reminder of what I should be doing; being an audience member reinforces that I am not a part of the production.

This seawall I’ve constructed between myself and creation has at least allowed me to enjoy art. Martyr! was probably my favorite, although Rejection, James, Small Things Like These, and the translated works of Agustina Bazterrica were definite highlights. Likewise, I adored Letters Live! at Town Hall, Enemy of the People, and having Jonathan Goff slobber all over me at Merrily We Roll Along (although Daniel Radcliffe’s one song actually stole the pretty clumsily-written show).

I am however, very, very bored. So while my fingers may not be tapping away, I know that a good part of me is either withering within or preparing to burst… The old saw from Stephen King’s Shawshank Redemption tends to echo around my skull whenever I’m sitting around: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” So, I made 2024 a busy year, even if it’s often felt like I’m pushing water.

I took up a second job, returning back to some forensic psychiatry after a lengthy absence. I’ve also continued with my work with Crisis Intervention Training with Halton Police and attended the Disaster Psychiatry Conference which was a very different consideration for pubic mental health response.

With Oakville Improv, I did about 25 shows over the course of the year both locally and in Toronto. This next year looks like it could be even busier with an expanding repertory company that is ramping up to churn out great material consistently. More and more, we feel like a large, reliably consistent group. Our monthly QEPCCC shows will continue, along with the Moonshine in its new digs and other venues TBD. I’ve been trying to dabble more into the musical improv arena, but could definitely use some singing lessons before pushing that too far.

And then there have been races. I managed six triathlons this year (one indoor, three sprints, two Olympic distance), one Spartan race, and a 5K open water swim. And while it wasn’t a race, I escaped from Alcatraz with Odyssey Open Water Swimming on a chilly November morning–a beautiful event for anyone looking for a fifty-minute cold plunge! My watch tells me I ran more than 250 miles and biked over 600 miles. My back and knees are hinting that those distances probably won’t see their equals again in this lifetime.

So, here’s to closing the book on 2024. My year of being busy. I have a few ideas of what this next year may bring…and if any of them are worth noting, I’ll definitely stick them here.

Back about a hundred years ago, I trained as a forensic psychiatry fellow. My co-fellow, Kathleen Young, and I were joined at the hip for the year, driving out to Mid-Hudson twice a week, attending classes, working in the court clinic, and writing. Always writing. More than clinical care, forensic work involves hours of document review and writing. Six to ten hours of deskwork for every one hour of interviewing. Kathleen’s energy and camaraderie was a reprieve from the mental work (both meanings) of that year.

Last weekend, Kathleen messaged me about a recent episode of her podcast in which she interviewed Toya Clay, a co-resident in my psychiatry training. It was nice to hear their voices again. It is a very elegant, intense, and insightful discussion of many things–the parts about how our own conflicts/foibles emerge in our parenting are particularly thoughtful. It deals with some very heavy material in a remarkably comfortable way. Highly recommended.

On Thursday, I heard from Kathleen again. This time with the sad news that Dr. Michael Stone had passed.I couldn’t find an obituary yet, but his Wikipedia page has been updated. Dr. Stone (I don’t I think I ever called him Michael) used to host Kathleen and I at his labyrinthine Manhattan apartment (two apartments that had been combined into one). Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed three deep on every conceivable topic. Among them, we convened weekly to talk about serial killers, sexual sadism, and personality disorders.

At the time, Dr. Stone was filming his television show for the Discovery Channel and between supervisions was off meeting with murderers and rapists, rating them on his scale of evil. We worked on a chapter about sadistic personality and I got to present with him at a personality disorders conference in the Hague. He always wore a suit and discussed the most gruesome material with a cool, dry wit. He was an intellectual and one of the most interesting mentors I had the good fortune to learn from.

So, the nostalgia dial was already turned up and now was cranked further.

I’ll put on a pot of tea, put on Kathleen’s podcast and Most Evil simultaneously, and if I close my eyes it might be 2007 all over again.

Apparently the months have crept on. One of the odd experiences I’ve had these years, be it pandemic-related or no, is an inconstancy of time. A day doesn’t pass that I don’t wonder if it’s Fall or Winter, January or June, let alone the date. I’m always feeling like some old record player whose needle has been put down on the wrong track.

In January, which I do strongly recall, I graduated on a rooftop in Rome from my MFA program at VCFA. It was a fantastic experience, yet one one which justified all the reasons why I did the degree in the first place: I need something to write for!!

Well, six months later and I’m back to submitting short pieces, back to working on long pieces, and back to the rigamarole of disappointment, disgust, and ennui.

All that said, I just attended a novel retreat that was quite fantastic, primarily to help articulate all the old rules that aren’t visible when there’s a course deadline:

1. There is no deadline. The deadline is death; write until crossed.
2. The artistic life is one of self-care, compassion, understanding.
3. The commercial life is one of demand, doubt, and justification.
4. There is a realistic approach to combining 2 and 3 but it is not obvious, especially in the hour-by-hour experience of artistic pursuit.
5. Love the process. There will be more process after success or failure.
6. You are not alone in doing this crazy thing.
7. You are crazy but blessedly brilliant! (and an acquired taste!)
8. Your fans may not be your family and friends.
9. Structure to writing is helpful despite your best arguments.

Anyway, the last few months have not been without breakthroughs and new invigoration, still I lament the structure of mentor and workshop submission.

The good to great news is that the end is in sight. I have a few hundred pages, and while most of those need to be rewritten, I can see Einstein and Freud bringing the magic home. Better yet, I am hopeful at finding a few historical confluences that send it over the top. I’m shooting for fall, but do so knowing that life is short and the art takes for fucking ever.

The workshop was run by Connie May Fowler who is planning a number of upcoming workshops. She is accomplished, warm, forgiving, and encourages a loyal following wherever she goes. I can’t recommend her mentorship enough.

My twentieth and final packet has been submitted.

My graduate lecture (on constraints to promote creativity) has been uploaded.

The only thing left is my attendance and I will be done with my MFA in writing.

I think any real reflection will be some months away. As it is, the gauntlet of reading (maybe sixty books, portions of another forty) and writing (about 425 pages of fiction in total) has gnawed so steadily at my consciousness these last two years that I don’t know how to put it in perspective.

What do I want to read, now? What do I want to write, now? When no one is looking over my shoulder, when there is no pressing deadline, have I been left inspired or drained? Eager to press on or ready to vegetate? What comes next?

But first, I’m off to Rome for the final residency. A chance to meet people in person, walk a new city, drink wine, eat pasta, and celebrate with new friends.

Middles get a bum rap. Sometimes they’re not so bad. Middles are usually things in progress, at neither extreme of beginning (incompetence) or ending (mastery). The pandemic has been difficult because it’s been one long middle, with only glimpses of an end. Unlike the pandemic though, the middle of an enjoyable process is a pretty okay place to be.

I just past the mid-point of my first term in my Master’s program. It’s going smashingly. I’m kicking myself that I waited this long. There is a qualitative difference in my growth that is difficult to capture. Having spent so many years reading craft books and reading and writing, there is nothing mind-blowingly new, no extra-secret secret I’ve been let in on (yet). The difference is the expectation I have on myself, the permission and expectation to grow and develop. It’s like I’m out of the “who would publish this?” mindset and into a “what’s the best you can do with this story?” Learning more and more about this wacky imagination of mine, and my advisor, Bret Lott, has been supportive and encouraging and has given me a yearlong reading list of “my people”.

As I prepare my next packet’s story (about student housing haunted by a ghost who loves David Hasselhoff), I am thinking a lot about work versus the work. Artists use that phrase a lot, but it’s a very different thing than work elsewhere. It’s not assigned, not driven by external expectations, yet no less real.

On another note, I’ve been a fan of crosswords for many years. Probably took hold in medical school and got me through all the immunology lectures. My NYT streak has been going well:

But I got to try my hand at the real stuff this past weekend at the ACPT. I was registered to go last year, but got to try the virtual format, and have a much better idea of just how high the bar gets. How’d I do? About a thousand contestants in the individuals bracket.

509th. Pretty much the middlest middle I could hope for!