There’s a new Charli XCX album coming this summer. I’ve loved Charli since her debut album, but everything she’s put out since how i’m feeling now has spoken to me. It’s pure hyper-pop that I usually listen to with headphones in because my family thinks it’s superficial and annoying. I enjoy it, and it’s nice to just admit that without feeling shame for once.
I absolutely adored Britney Spears when she first came out in 1999. I was 13, perfect prey for her brand of innocent but vaguely sexualized bubblegum pop. But then her 3rd album came out in 2001, and her songs started sounding “slutty”. All my friends were enjoying Linkin Park on the regular, and nothing brought more shame to me than when adults asked what music I was listening to, and I’d crack open my discman to reveal the shame that was my Britney CD.
“I like Linkin Park, too!” I’d say, which was true. I loved both. It never felt like it actually mattered, though. People always nodded at me with that smile of hesitation. I never felt like I could have duality.
Back then, I used to stare at myself in the mirror and ask myself who I was. “Who are you?” It felt like some kind of weird internal crisis, but it was really just me growing up, figuring out who I becoming whilst facing the pressure to remaining the “little “good little church girl” that Brio Magazine told me to be.
The early 00s wasn’t a fun time to be a teenager, though thankfully, by the time I graduated, I’d found some solace in bands like Jimmy Eat World and Billy Talent and The Birthday Massacre. Britney Spears and other pop ilk (and all the nu-metal) were banished to the dark recesses of my CD collection.
I never felt like I could have duality.
I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been battling depression. Depression as a parent feels weird because I don’t have lot of time to be depressed. My husband’s picked up a lot of my slack, my forgetfulness and my lack of will to cook. He’s massaged a bunch of knots out of my back, but they never really go away. In recent months, I’ve been staying up until the early hours of the morning, trying and failing to write.
Most nights, instead of writing, I just watch YouTube video essays and indulge in cultural things. I started listening to 90s music I overlooked in the 90s, bands like Hole and Massive Attack and The Chemical Brothers. I’ve come up with various ideas for future projects, made a playlist or two. It feels cathartic, but I should really be writing, right?
This whole culture revival is a part of the reason why writing my WIP is taking forever. It started out as an erotic home invasion novella, but then I struggled with my protagonist, an I started a writing the Woodstock 99 novella as a prequel. I’ve been writing for over a year, but it also feels like I haven’t been writing anything at all. I spend so much of my time wasting my time.
I’ve also grown sick of social media. I like posting on Instagram, but my love for other social networks has waned. It’s just exhausting when all my creative effort goes toward “content” that never takes off. Threads is the most eye-rolling platform I’ve ever been on. Occasionally I’ll have a good chat with some Gen X person about the 90s, but there rest of it is just engagement bait cultural bullshit.
I don’t want to waste my precious limited time in a swamp full of recycled microplastic hot takes. I want to make art, dammit. And making art takes time.
It’s so invalidating, honestly, to never feel heard.
My son will be entering kindergarten this fall. I’ll miss aspects of having young children in the house. I’m going to miss his little voice and the way he mispronounces words. I’m going to miss how little he is, but I am very much looking forward to having time for me again.
I’m ready to be fully selfish again.
I’m just so damn sick of being a “Wife and Mother”. The title feels like a participation certificate.
I’ve got a knot of stress in my back and I’m constantly tired and fully caffeine-addicted. I have trouble remembering to do things. I half-finish so many things, and I often try to express how frustrated I am, but people just laugh and say shit like, “iT’s OkAy, YoU’rE a MoM!”
It’s so invalidating, honestly, to never feel heard.
I don’t regret my choice. The nuclear family life comes with a lot of rewards. I get a lot of love from my husband and my kids, but those rewards are for me to savor. My job isn’t to exploit the good parts for strangers on the internet. I’m not an influencer.
I’m just a girl who grew up with big dreams.
I’m so damn sick of being a “Wife and Mother”. The title feels like a participation certificate.
Ever since publishing Ending in Ashes, my “writing career” has been my biggest source of stress. Instead of writing, I had to focus on marketing. Not my strong suit. I’m sure most writers hate marking as much as I do. I like to be creative and authentic, but that combination of traits rarely ever pairs well with an algorithm.
When I make content for social media, it some feels a bit like being a Christian teen all over again. I don’t get to be myself. I have to sell my book in ways that I personally find cringeworthy. DO YOU LIKE THESE TROPES? OMG THEN MAYBE YOU’LL LIKE MY GOTHIC HORROR SHORT STORY COLLECTION!
Sometimes, making this shit feels just as soul-draining as taking care of my kids. I hate it just as much as I hate making my kids dinner, because they’re picky and I always have to cater to all their sensory food issues. They have fucking algorithms too.
And so I escape into my WIP, while also subconsciously figuring out how to market it. I’m not even enjoying the process of writing. It’s barely an escape. At this point, I’m literally just a “Wife and Mother with a Side-Hustle.”
Like fuck man, that’s so fucking depressing. I’ve become the most cliche thing ever. I refuse to think that I’m somehow better than a suburban woman selling essential oils. I refuse to kill what makes me a person. I refuse to follow the algorithm required to sell books online. That dream does not need to be a reality. I do not want to be as miserable as Mr. Beast.
[A]t this point, I’m literally just a “Wife and Mother with a Side-Hustle.”
So yeah, my WIP is killing me inside a bit. I feel so much pressure to just finish it and get it out there. Some of you writers are dropping multiple books a year and I’ve struggled with what. I’m envious that I can’t do the same. I get jealous every time I see an author talking about their “big news”. I throw my phone down and I want to scream.
I’ve finally realized that I haven’t had a healthy mindset when it comes to writing.
I recently watched Pearl. Part of me hates that I waited this long, but I also feel like it was the perfect time to watch it, because it struck me with epiphany. I’ve already had my “I’M A STAR!” moment. I’ve written about how soul crushing it was. Looking back on that post, I really wasn’t giving myself time to grieve. I put my happy face back on and faked my way through the pain.
I didn’t admit to myself that I don’t know how to write a novel. I didn’t admit to myself that I needed to take a break. I was just trying so hard to figure out what the next potential bestseller was going to be. And sure, I wrote some stories and published a collection that I’m proud of, but I did with that a subconscious drive to still be a star.
I didn’t address the fact that writing once gave me solace. It was where I could be sad and angsty and creative and authentic, and I ruined that sanctuary with the desire to be loved by as many people as possible. I’ve been bitter and angry, and I’ve been seeing a “writing career” as that one almighty thing that’s destined to save me from my perceived hell.
So yeah, I’m Pearl, but I’m also not Pearl. love my husband and my kids and my new pet cockatiel named Alex. I like family life. I like that I have people who can support me when I need the support. I’m just some nobody writer living in a mid-sized city in Canada. I have no desire to move or to travel. If it really came down to me choosing between moving to LA for the sake of making it “big”, or staying at home with my family and being comfortable, I’d choose the latter.
I’ve been bitter and angry, and I’ve been seeing a “writing career” as that one almighty thing that’s going to save me from my perceived hell.
I sold three copies of Ending in Ashes at the local punk store in March. People in my own community are finding my work. My writing is helping support a local business. I can be content with that. I can be happy with that. I can still fulfil all my dreams on a smaller scale.
I took my son to his first kindergarten orientation and it was so fucking nice to see him find his footing in a new environment, even when it was scary. I didn’t do the same for my daughter when she entered school. I was too busy writing back then, too blinded by big dreams to care. But I talk to my daughter now about school and her problems. She’s getting older, and I can talk to her about life in a way that I wish my parents had with me when I was younger.
I finally get the chance to be the person I wanted to be.
I’m figuring out how to deprogram myself from the social media indoctrination. Living in the moment with my family is more important. I need to figure out how to enjoy writing again. I don’t plan on feeling guilty if I end up watching people play video games on YouTube instead of writing. Taking the leisure time I deserve always gives me new ideas.
I’ve always been a slow writer. It’s about time I stop being so ashamed of it, because even though I’m not a big book star, I at least managed to buy this Hello Kitty bag with my royalties. I gotta stop taking these things for granted, because if I was selling essential oils through an MLM, I’d be shouting this kind of success through the rooftops.