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.