This Vaccine Is Super Chill, Friends

I’ve been seeing here and there that the Covid-19 vaccine is a giant shot that really hurts and knocks you out afterwards, but none of that is true. It’s very chill and painless and stress-free.

I’m deathly afraid of needles, but this wasn’t a big deal, even for me. Just in case anyone has anxiety about this vaccine, I want to add my voice to the chorus of people saying that there’s nothing to worry about.

The needle isn’t big at all, and the shot takes literally a second. It’s not painful, just a tiny touch of ice on your shoulder. I experienced a slight fever and some wooziness during the afternoon and evening after the vaccine, but the symptoms were mild and had totally disappeared when I woke up the next morning. My arm was a bit sore the day after, but it wasn’t painful; it was just like the feeling you get after pushing your limits a little during a weightlifting session. There was no bruise at all.

Everyone in the impromptu clinic was very friendly and kept thanking me for showing up and being there. They took social distancing seriously without being weird about it or performing hygiene theater, which I appreciated. All of the doctors and nurses were bizarrely healthy-looking and attractive in the way that healthcare professionals often are when they’re not at the end of some horrible hellshift. I got a big glossy sticker and a little vaccine passport card at the end of the fifteen-minute observation period, and they are both very handsome.

As a nonbinary person, I’ve had a lot of trouble with the medical system in the past, but none of that nonsense applies to this situation. No one is going to force you to check a binary gender box or ask for your deadname or try to shame you about your identity or appearance or “gender-appropriate” weight; they just want to help you get vaccinated. Even if you have trauma associated with doctors and needles, you’ll be okay.

Overall, getting vaccinated was a pleasant experience. If nothing else, you can use it as an excuse to order a pizza and spend the rest of the day in bed playing video games, which is totally what I did.

The clinic I visited at UPenn was on the second-floor basketball court of the university gym, but I’ve been hearing about vaccine clinics that have been set up in mostly abandoned malls in New Jersey and elsewhere around the United States, and damn that sounds cool. I’ve added “visiting mostly abandoned malls in New Jersey” to the list of things I want to try once I’m fully vaccinated, and I’m looking forward to it. There are a lot of things I’m looking forward to doing, actually, and I’m relieved and happy to have taken this step forward to being able to enjoy them while living my best and most interesting post-pandemic life.

So no worries, friends. Even if your anxiety is as awful as mine, you’ll be fine.

You got this.

We Should Improve Society Somewhat

This is my take on the viral Matt Bors comic. Someone actually said this to me about two years ago, and since then their comment has been living in my head rent-free. With this comic I hereby evict that unpleasantness and release it back into the wild.

I started drawing this comic earlier this year and finished it just to get it out of my drafts folder. In the time since I completed the line art, I made a firm decision to limit the negativity I post on social media. To be honest, most of the experiences that have had a major impact on my life during the past several years have been negative, but I’m not sure there’s any real use or meaning in representing them directly through autobiographical essays and comics. Instead, I’ve found much more satisfaction and catharsis in constructing analogies through the medium of fiction.

Also, I think there are a not insignificant number of people in the world (including the “yet you have a job” person) who tend to latch onto negativity to make bad-faith arguments about topics that could benefit from more nuance. Now that I’m at a stage of my life where I’m considering working on more collaborative projects, I’d prefer to keep that sort of interpersonal drama to a minimum. Thankfully, I’m in a better place now than I was when I started drawing this comic, and I hope the person who wrote this in response to one of my essays is in a better place too.

Still – fuck capitalism.

Wizard Pants

Today is Monday, March 8. It’s supposed to get warm tomorrow, but it’s not there yet. It’s probably starting to be gorgeous in DC – this is the time of year when the plum trees bloom, and the cherries and dogwoods are right around the corner – but I am past the point in my life when I think it’s reasonable to pay $3k a month for a rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment. So now I live in West Philadelphia, which is beautiful in its own way, but it’s far enough north that there are still nasty piles of snow in the CVS parking lot.

This weekend my husband was a human slug that lumped around on the couch and rewatched old seasons of The Wire, and he was starting to get depressed from lack of sunlight. I wanted to take him on a field trip, but it’s Philadelphia. Where is there to go?

And then it hit me – Four Seasons Total Landscaping.

Four Seasons Total Landscaping is in northeast Philadelphia, a little up I-95 as it follows the Delaware River headed toward Trenton. Because it’s right on the river and right off the interstate, this used to be a manufacturing district, but now all the factories are closed and boarded shut. There’s no traffic, and everything is just sort of quietly rusting away. The roads are wide and obviously meant to accommodate tractor-trailer trucks, but they’re completely empty. Local rail lines cross above the roads on bridges, but they’re also rusting and falling down in places. It’s a little creepy and probably super dangerous.

Four Seasons Total Landscaping is on one of these big roads. As reported, it is indeed across the street from a crematorium and next door to an adult video store. The crematorium is surprisingly tasteful, and the adult video store was surprisingly busy on a Sunday afternoon. There was nothing much to see at Four Seasons Total Landscaping itself, save for an excessive amount of barbed wire on the chain-link fence in front of their parking lot and a sign out front that says they’re hiring.

The way I understand it, the Trump campaign choosing Four Seasons Total Landscaping as a venue was a characteristically stupid mistake, but this area of Philadelphia is also the only part of the city that consistently votes Republican. It’s about 85% “white,” but the majority of these people are either immigrants or the children of immigrants from Russia, Eastern Europe, and the former Soviet countries in Central Asia.

So, sitting in our car on the street outside Four Seasons Total Landscaping, we googled “Russian grocery store.” We struck gold with a place called NetCost Market, which is apparently the Eastern European equivalent of H-Mart (by which I mean large and a bit upscale but with mostly foreign brand-name products). They had a Halal butcher and a bunch of kosher food, and I have never seen such a prodigious gathering of meat and cheese and pickled fish in my entire life. They also had enormous displays of German chocolate and Northern European (mainly Russian) herbal tea, and it was all ridiculously inexpensive. We filled a shopping basket and walked out of the store having paid less than $40.

That’s not the story, though. The story is that there was a Dollar General in the same shopping center. I don’t know what Dollar General stores are like in the rest of the country, but in Philadelphia they’re all over the place and where you go to get paper goods (like toilet paper) when the neighborhood CVS or Rite Aid invariably doesn’t have any in stock. They’re super sad and depressing but also super cheap, and they’re like the Wild West in that you never know what fell off the back of a truck somewhere and is currently on sale.

Since the Dollar General was right there, and since we already had the car, I was like, “Listen, I know this is supposed to be a fun day out, but we’re almost out of paper towels.” So we went into the Dollar General, and…

They had wizard pants.

I don’t know how else to describe them – dark blue and black pants covered with various patterns depicting stars, planets, and constellations. Some were high fantasy European, and some were more geometric West African, but they were all fabulous. It might be a stretch to call these pants “tasteful,” but the prints were beautiful. The fabric wasn’t the sort of rough flannel normally used for pajama pants, but a light synthetic cotton like yoga pants, except it was loose and flowing instead of tight and “shaping.” Each pair was $8 even.

My first thought was “holy shit,” which was quickly followed by the realization that I could probably buy these in bulk and resell them on Etsy for an enormous markup. (Which I would never do because that’s too much trouble and lol what, am I going to use myself as a model.) And then I thought, But why is American athletic clothing and longuewear always so gray and boring? Why doesn’t everyone own at least one pair of wizard pants?

So I’m just standing there, right in the middle of the store, staring at these pants and having galaxy brain thoughts, and my husband comes up with the paper towels and is like, “Please hurry up and pick one so we can leave.”

And that’s how I got myself a snazzy pair of wizard pants. They are magical and I love them very much.

I have never seen wizard pants at any other Dollar General location, but I promise this is a real place. It’s the store in the shopping center with the NetCost Market at 2417 Welsh Road.

By the way, when I say that Dollar General is super depressing, what I mean is that it has a bare-bones interior with ghastly fluorescent lighting. The stores are always comically understaffed, so the shelves are in total disarray while there’s just one lonely person at the check-out counter. I used to work at Walmart, and to me Dollar General looks like it’s just a stockroom with no sales floor, by which I mean there’s no attempt to make the space pleasant and inviting. They also sell highly processed American junk food in bulk, which is depressing in a way that runs much deeper than the immediate shopping experience.

I suspect that some people will read what I wrote about Dollar General and jump to the conclusion that I think working-class people are depressing. I actually don’t have much money myself, and the point of my story is that traversing an urban landscape becomes much more interesting when you put stereotypes and generalizations aside in favor of thinking about the histories of specific communities and the daily experiences of the people who live there. I am not slumming it, or whatever, by going to the grocery store in a different neighborhood as a fun day out.

That being said.

These wizard pants transcend social and economic class. They also transcend time and space. They are fantastic and amazing. I don’t know where they came from or where they’re going, but it is a privilege and an honor to accompany them on their journey.

Anyway. I lived in Philadelphia on and off for seven or eight years before moving to DC, but I’m just now realizing that I don’t know the city very well. It will be nice to get out more once the weather gets warmer and we all get properly vaccinated.

Whisper of the Heart


My husband is a fan of European football, and he spends a lot of time scrolling through football Twitter under a pseudonymous throwaway account. Most of the accounts he follows are British. He got annoyed with not being able to watch the region-locked videos people linked to, so a week or two ago he set up a VPN. (If you’re curious, he uses ExpressVPN, which is $8 a month and seems to be working nicely for him.) His computer now registers as being in the UK, and he employs this for the nefarious purpose of watching a few minutes of football videos a day and being amused by the British ads that Twitter shows him (mostly for snacks).

Even though he doesn’t use it much these days, my husband never stopped paying for his Netflix account, and it recently occurred to him that, with a UK address, he could watch British Netflix.

So the other day I was standing in the kitchen waiting for tea to brew, and my husband was sitting on the couch looking at Netflix UK. I asked him if he’s found anything to watch, and he started complaining that Netflix keeps trying to show him animated movies. He told he that they look Japanese.

I was like, “Okay, yes, go on.”

And he was like, “Have you ever heard of Studio Ghibli?”

That’s when I realized that my husband had never heard of Studio Ghibli.

. . . . .

My husband enjoys movies, but he’s in his forties and comes from a country where there hasn’t been a culture of anime fandom until relatively recently. He likes the Makoto Shinkai movies we’ve watched, which he calls “documentaries about Japan,” so I thought that Whisper of the Heart would be the best Studio Ghibli movie to show him. He loved it.

I loved it too. It’s been about ten years since I last saw Whisper of the Heart, and I was not expecting it to hit as hard as it did.

Whisper of the Heart is about a middle-school girl named Shizuku who loves reading. Shizuku checks out books from the local library, and she’s noticed that there’s another kid’s name on almost all of the library borrower cards inside the covers of the books she reads. She ends up meeting this boy, who is her age but wants to study the craft of violin making in Italy instead of matriculating to high school. Inspired by his determination to follow his dream, Shizuku decides to follow her own dream of writing a fantasy novel.

Shizuku gets really absorbed in her writing. She tells a friend that she has no appetite because she’s too preoccupied with her novel, and then she eats shortbread cookies so she can stay awake while she’s writing in the evening. She stops hanging out with her friends after school so that she can fantasize about her novel while walking home. She only puts in the bare minimum of work necessary to get by at school, and her grades drop. She gets explosively irritated when people interrupt her while she’s writing. When she’s done with the story, she gets super neurotic about feedback. She cries a lot.

I was just sitting there, like, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

How dare Hayao Miyazaki come into my house and call me out like this.

. . . . .

The range of what my husband does and doesn’t know about internet culture is a mystery to me, so I was surprised when he asked me if the anime girl from the Lofi Hip Hop Radio channel on YouTube is modeled on the protagonist of Whisper of the Heart.

The answer is yes, of course she is. This reference is so obvious to me that I never thought about it as something other people might not get.

Because I teach upper-level seminar classes that don’t have any formal prerequisites, I spend a lot of time thinking about what my students do and don’t already know. I treat grad students like the educated adults they are, but it can sometimes be difficult to tell with undergrads. At George Mason, most of the students were either immigrants or the children of immigrants, but they had all gone through American public high school, so I could assume that they were vaguely aware of certain cultural touchstones. At UPenn, on the other hand, the students who went to public high school in America might actually be a tiny minority. Each new microgeneration of kids is going to create its own common knowledge base regardless of where they come from, so you have to be sensitive to that, but it’s just the nature of working with a large and heterogeneous group of people that there will be all sorts of things you don’t think about.

I went to college early, and then went to grad school right after college and got my PhD fairly quickly, so I was roughly in the same generation as my students for most of the time I was teaching. I’ve gotten older, though, as people tend to do. Now it surprises me when my undergrads are genuinely curious about Harry Potter because they’ve never read the books or seen the movies. Things I just absorbed by osmosis because I grew up with them are now units of knowledge that need to be explained, and that’s wild.

I can’t help but wonder if that’s what getting older is about – being able to pick up on more cultural references because I’ve had more years in common with the people who create media. And then I wonder when the cross-over point is going to be, like, when will I stop getting references because I’m so old that younger people no longer have any culture in common with me?

In any case, Whisper of the Heart is set in the 1990s but feels timeless. It’s still just as beautiful to me now as it was when I first watched it in college. The fact that the vast majority of anime fans under the age of thirty have probably never even heard of movie feels a little weird, but it’s also kind of nice. It’s wonderful that amazing stories were created in the past, but the genius and creativity of past work doesn’t need to be a burden, as there will always be cultural room to create stories in the future that build on the past but still feel fresh and new to each generation.

A Christmas Story

My husband is a fan of British football, and his hobby is to scroll through Twitter on his phone while he watches pirate livestreams of matches on his laptop. If I happen to be in the room at the same time, he’ll sometimes read me news headlines from Twitter.

This past Friday morning, he informed me that Visa and Mastercard are no longer accepting charges from Pornhub. “But isn’t Pornhub free?” I asked him. “Maybe they have premium content,” he said. I wanted to ask who pays for “premium content” on Pornhub, but my tea was done brewing and I had emails to write.

Along with British football, my husband is a fan of Germany. I’m not sure how this happened, but I think I can guess.

One summer my husband was scheduled to give a paper at an academic conference in Europe, and we flew through Amsterdam because flights were cheap. My husband wanted to stay in the city for a few days until he got over the jetlag, so he rented an Airbnb in a student apartment at the top of a townhouse. It was high summer, and the apartment didn’t have air conditioning, and I was tired, so I complained. “This is how people do things in Europe,” he said, and I said, “Amsterdam is budget Europe.”

For the record, I don’t actually think Amsterdam is “budget Europe.” I like Amsterdam a lot, and I love the Netherlands in general. To geek out a little, I’m interested in how “science” developed in the Edo period, especially through what people at the time called “Dutch learning.” While the Japanese were studying Dutch medicine and culture, the Dutch were also studying Japanese medicine and culture, and it’s so cool to see the legacy of that exchange in Holland, especially in its botanical gardens. The comics subculture in the Netherlands is also really interesting, and I’ve had nothing but fantastic experiences talking with the artists and writers I’ve met there.

So Amsterdam is not “budget Europe,” obviously. I was just being a brat.

My husband’s pride was offended, however, so before we flew back to the United States he decided to rent a car and go to “not budget Europe,” which he had apparently designated as Germany. Specifically, he wanted to go to the kebab shop that the former Arsenal star player Lukas Podolski opened in the city of Cologne. So we went, and Cologne was beautiful, and the kebabs were delicious, and we got fresh bread at a nearby bakery that ended up being some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten in my life. It was a fun drive, and we had a good time, and now my husband is in love with Germany.

After watching his football match, my husband informed me that he wanted to get German food for lunch at the “Christmas village” that the city of Philadelphia has set up in front of the City Hall building. Despite the city of Philadelphia being what it is – saying “budget New York” might sound mean, but I’m proud to live here and say it with affection – the German-themed carnival set up around City Hall is quite nice.

I staked out a table and remained there to hold down the fort while my husband stood in line to get beer and borscht and wienerschnitzel. It didn’t take long for me to realize that no one else was eating lunch at the German fair in the freezing cold at eleven on a Friday morning, so I had a good ten minutes to sit alone and listen to the pre-recorded Christmas music coming from the cheap speakers set up around the edges of the tables. It was awful. I’m not a fan of Christmas music to begin with, but this was something special. I think there’s brand-name Christmas music that gets played on broadcast radio, and then there’s Christmas music that’s cheaper to license. Budget Christmas music?

I was especially disturbed by a rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” that sounded as though it were being sung by a man who had a gun pointed at the back of his head. I’m not sure how to describe it, but you could tell from the tone of his voice that his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes.

The feeling this performance inspired in me was, “Is this person okay?”

I imagine that the singer probably wasn’t okay. What if he had gone to Julliard, thinking that he wanted to work with a professional choir one day? He might have even specialized in medieval Christian religious music. But there’s probably not a lot of demand for that sort of thing, especially not during a pandemic. So he calls in a favor and gets hired to record “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” for Xfinity Radio or whatever, and he hates every second of it. He made his life choices when he was still young and idealistic, and now his student loans have trapped him in an industry he despises more with each passing day.

He gets back to his apartment after the recording session and eats cheap take-out food that already got cold while he climbed the stairs to his walk-up, and he thinks about all the sacrifices he’s made to become a professional singer. All of his classmates used to go out drinking after performances, but he never did, not wanting to risk damage to his voice by yelling to be heard in a noisy bar. Most of his friends from high school who followed more practical paths into adulthood are already married, and some of them even have houses. He’s lonely, not to mention broke, and none of the thousands of hours he’s put into perfecting his craft have gotten him anywhere in life. He gives up on dinner and turns on his computer before deciding that it’s probably best not to check social media, not tonight. While he’s got his computer open, he might as well go to Pornhub. Try as he might, though, he just can’t seem to finish, and he thinks that he would do anything to be able to forget the decisions he made when he was younger and believed the world was a better place than it turned out to be.

And so, I thought as I sat by myself at a socially distanced table and listened to sad Christmas music echo across an empty parking lot in Philadelphia, that’s who pays for premium content on Pornhub. Except not anymore, apparently, because Visa and Mastercard have cut off all payments to the site.

Happy holidays!

Warding Off the Creepy

On November 3 of this year, I was refreshing feeds and doomscrolling, as one does while waiting for votes in swing states to be counted, when I got a rejection email from a progressive American sci-fi and fantasy magazine. Rejection emails are par for the course when it comes to submitting fiction to magazines, of course, but the timing could not have been worse. The wording of the email was also quite strong. I have a folder in Gmail that I’m slowly filling with rejections, but this particular email hurt more than it should have.

Still, I understand why rejection emails have to be written like this. There are just so many creepy people out there that you have to make your boundaries absolutely clear.

Case in point:

I’ve been receiving creepy “newsletters” from a random man since the beginning of the year. These letters come once a month through the mail, and the handwriting on the envelopes is just as creepy as the personal nature of the letters. I thought I would be free of these letters when I moved to Philadelphia and changed addresses, but the post office has been forwarding them to me instead of returning them to the sender.

There’s a fading culture of zine mailing lists that I think this person is trying to keep alive, but I don’t know him at all, and I don’t know how he got my mailing address, and getting these creepy letters with creepy handwriting is… Well, it’s creepy.

On getting another creepy letter in the mail the other day, I finally snapped and wrote this man a three-line email. I said that I know he means no harm, but to please stop sending me letters because this is creepy, and PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND TO THIS EMAIL. So of course he responds, immediately, saying that he did not mean to be creepy, etc etc etc etc etc, and it was… Yeah, it was super creepy.

Can you even imagine being the editor of a fiction magazine and having to deal with people like this? Of course rejection letters have to be strong.

(Still, couldn’t that magazine have waited a day or two after the election? Honestly.)

I recently read that, according to several university studies, men report that they’re more afraid of being called “creepy” than they are of being called just about anything else, including “stupid,” “ugly,” or “weak.” If I had to guess, I’d say that the anxiety surrounding creepiness has a lot to do with the perception that it’s hard to pin down what “being creepy” actually entails. I don’t think it’s that complicated, though. What “creepy” is all about, at least in this context, is uninvited and unwanted intimate personal contact that is repeated after not being reciprocated. Of course women and nonbinary people can be creepy too, but I suspect that the sense of entitlement many men seem to feel regarding their right to receive attention tends to exacerbate their creepy behavior.

Anyway, I’ve been disheartened by the unequivocally negative tone of some of the rejection emails I’ve received from fiction magazines, but I’m trying not to take it personally. After all, this isn’t about me and the quality of my work, but rather a preemptive attempt on the part of the editors to ward off the creepy.

Novel Writing with ADD

Having almost finished my third fanfic novel, I’m preparing to start my first original novel early next year. This is a project I’ve been planning for the past year, and I’m taking it very seriously as I consider the path my life will follow over the next few months.

I’m facing something of a problem, however.

I have ADD.

I’m making a (somewhat arbitrary) distinction between “ADD” and “ADHD” here, not in the least because I’m probably one of the most chill and least “hyperactive” people you could ever meet. If you talked to me for the first time, or even if you worked with me for years, you would probably never know that there’s anything “wrong” with me. To be honest, I don’t see ADD/ADHD as being in a different category of chronic condition than, say, diabetes. It’s genetic, and I handle it with a combination of medication, behavioral strategies, and social support structures. You know, as one does. It’s not a big deal.

Still, working with ADD can be difficult. The secondary conditions accompanying ADD, such as dyslexia and executive function disorder, can be difficult to work with as well. Although it’s only tangentially related, having anxiety is difficult too. All of this is difficult to begin with, and it’s made even more difficult by the fact that almost everyone born after 1980 – regardless of gender, race, or economic class – has been subject to intense neoliberal pressure to “optimize” their “performance” in order to succeed in absurdly competitive systems that only reward people with an abnormally high degree of preexisting advantages. It’s also unfortunate that these disorders are both poorly understood and ridiculously stigmatized, and that the American medical healthcare system is largely inefficient, ineffective, and intensely bigoted, even if you’re a straight white man (but most definitely going downhill from there).

In any case, having Attention Deficit Disorder is precisely that – my ability to concentrate and manage my attention is not neurotypical. I personally wouldn’t call it a “disorder,” necessarily, because it feels very normal to me, and I don’t think it’s actually a “deficit” compared to what other people experience. Rather, it’s a few steps closer to the end of a spectrum instead of being right smack in the middle. Sustaining focus and attention for long intervals with no physical movement or immediate reward is painfully difficult for me. That being said, I’d like to believe that I’m relatively skilled at lateral thinking, thinking quickly, processing multiple sources of input, and managing multiple tasks simultaneously in a way that many other people seem to find exhausting. To use an academic setting as an example, what this means is that I can finish a test quickly and with a perfect score but can’t for the life of me sit still and look at the desk while waiting for everyone else to finish (as opposed to drawing on the back of the test paper or checking my phone, for instance).

To give another example, although I can’t sit down and read one book for an entire hour, I can sit down for an hour and read ten books, and I can do this every day until all the books are read. As a result, I read more books than almost anyone else I know (I keep track of this on Goodreads, if you’re curious), usually with good retention and recall. A problem only arises if you give me a book and expect me to have read the whole thing by tomorrow – in which case I would say that’s your problem, not mine. In other words, the “problem” is often the arbitrary framework for a task, not my ability to handle it. To be blunt, the way I work only becomes a “disability” if someone deliberately goes out of their way to make it so by refusing to accommodate diversity.

This becomes tricky, however, when I have to set a task for myself.

Specifically, how am I supposed to maintain my attention and concentration for long enough to write the epic fantasy novel I’ve been outlining for the past year?

Based on my previous experiences with fanfiction and my academic monograph, I think that, in order to complete a significant writing project, I would need:

– the project to be of a manageable length,
– the project to occupy a manageable timeframe,
– the project to receive a manageable level of feedback,
– the project to have distinct and manageable milestones, and
– the project to have room for me to step away between milestones.

Instead of writing the story I’m envisioning in the form of a giant singular manuscript, perhaps it would make sense if:

– it were divided into a series of novellas
– of roughly 30k words each
– with roughly ten main chapters each
– and roughly 2,500 words per chapter.

I know this isn’t the traditional publishing model, but Tor recently started to put out novellas of approximately this length. (Silver in the Wood is a good example, I think.) Many of the Tor fantasy novellas I’ve read during the past year have been a lot of fun, and I’m given to understand, based on reviews and sales rankings, that a number of them are doing quite well in both digital and physical editions. What I’m envisioning might be possible, then.

In any case, I think it might be worth talking to an agent, but…

…I’m totally broke, I’m very shy, I only have a moderate following on social media, and I don’t have any useful connections in real life. If you combine my inexperience with the publishing world and the way my ADD workstyle functions best with external structure and feedback, I think it’s clear I would need a lot of guidance, and I don’t even know where to begin looking for help.

Maybe it’s still a bit early for all of that, though. For the time being, it would probably be best to start by cleaning up my outline and getting to work on a formal pitch. Once that’s taken care of, I can figure out where to go from there.

Anxiety in the Age of COVID-19

This week I invented a fun “adult” game to play with my partner. It’s called:

“Can you please sit on the couch with me and help me write emails because I am riddled with anxiety and have somehow managed to convince myself that every single word I write is bad and will cause everyone to lose respect for me and hate me forever.”

I’m currently struggling through a wave of anxiety, and it’s both intense and completely irrational. For example:

– An amazing colleague sent me a nice email expressing admiration for something I published recently, and I think I’m going to die.
– Another amazing colleague wrote to ask if they could put an unpublished essay of mine in a book they’re editing, and I think I’m going to die.
– I got a few new submissions to a zine I’m editing, and they are wonderful, and I think I’m going to die.
– A stranger who seems like a cool and interesting person sent me a message on Instagram inviting me to submit a comic to a zine they’re putting together, and I think I’m going to die.
– Someone sent me a message on Etsy telling me that they love my art, and I think I’m going to die.
– An artist I admire tentatively accepted an illustration commission for a novel I’m writing, and I think I’m going to die.

I feel awful, as if I’m an asshole for tricking these people. Like, they don’t know that I’m actually a terrible person, but they will find out. Nothing bad has happened, but bad things may potentially happen in the future.

When I was at my previous job, my older male department chair asked a female colleague to sit me down and tell me that anxiety doesn’t exist, and that it’s just a matter of me changing my attitude (or something). I keep thinking about this in an attempt to explain to no one in particular that I don’t actually want social interaction – even positive social interaction – to make me feel like I can’t breathe and might need to go to the hospital.

Emotionally I want to communicate and connect with people, especially friendly people doing cool things who it would be fun to work with. Intellectually I know that the worst thing that could happen is me making a silly typo or me eventually having to apologize for submitting something a few days late. Physically, however, I feel like I’m watching a grisly scene in a horror movie, except I can’t close my eyes until it goes away because this is my actual life.

Despite feeling like I’m on the verge of a coronary event, I’m going to ask my partner to sit on the couch with me and help me respond to some emails like a normal adult. This shouldn’t feel like I’m walking into battle, but it does and I hate it.

I’ll get through this, of course. It might take me a bit longer than it takes other people to respond to emails when I’m dealing with anxiety, but I’ll definitely get through this. I’m grateful to have a partner who supports me, and I’m very lucky that my colleagues (and students!) in my new department are accommodating. I’ve started being honest and upfront about what I’m going through, and everyone has been surprisingly kind and understanding.

I’m sharing this in the hope that it makes someone out there feel less weird and alone. There’s so much ambient stress and bad news in the world every single week, and I think a lot of people are experiencing this sort of anxiety at this level of intensity for the first time. It’s normal to feel physically sick, and it’s normal to feel mentally paralyzed. After experiencing wave after wave of negativity, it’s totally normal to have this sort of reaction even to positive events. So be kind to yourself, and let other people help you! You can get through this.

Live Your Best Life

I ended my post about theme park fandom with a question concerning how someone gets a job as a theme park journalist. I don’t have any serious interest in theme parks, so what I really want to know is how to get paid for doing what you love. It was mostly rhetorical… but also sort of an actual question.

Do you have to have your own YouTube channel? I am not telegenic and hate the sound of my own voice, but maybe it’s something to consider.

The talk I gave at Otakon last Saturday wasn’t great. I mean, it wasn’t bad. I’m going to say that it was a solid 6/10 performance.

This was mainly because of the platform. The way we had it set up, I couldn’t see the audience (which was virtual anyway), I couldn’t see the chat, I couldn’t see the producers, and I had no way to communicate with anyone. I didn’t even know if video was enabled while I was presenting. Basically, I was sitting at my desk and talking to a dead screen for half an hour, which was super awkward. Afterwards, I could barely hear the questions I was given, even with my laptop’s speakers set at maximum volume. There was no way to gauge reactions, which meant that any sort of humor (including even the most basic crowd work) was impossible. I was so nervous!

I’m definitely not blaming the producers, who did excellent work given the timeframe and limitations, and I’m doing my best not to blame myself. This was the first time I’ve ever given a virtual talk, after all. I spent a good two and a half hours editing the slideshow afterwards, and I also put together several pages of notes about what I can do differently in the future, including how to make humor work and how to be more engaging for an unseen virtual audience.

Still, I’ve been having these weird PTSD flashbacks to the talk during the past week. Like, I’ll randomly remember a word I stumbled over or a name I couldn’t remember off the top of my head or a typo in one of my slides, and I’ll experience an intense moment of physically palpable cringe. Then again, this sort of reaction is normal for a lot of people who give live performances of any kind. It’s difficult at first, but you gradually get used to it. I no longer have any problems with teaching or presenting in person, but this sort of virtual talk was an entirely new experience for me. Thankfully, now that I’ve done it once, it can only get better from here.

I’m wondering if I might be able to make short videos for my class this semester. A general rule of thumb is that, unless you’ve got a lot of text on each slide (which you really shouldn’t), you should spend about one minute on each slide of a presentation. If you’re reading aloud from an essay, one minute is about one double-spaced page. I can definitely make a five-slide presentation and write a five-page “script” to go with it every week. The problem would be recording, as I have exactly no equipment and zero experience in video editing. This would be the point pre-semester when it would be good to go to campus and ask a specialist for assistance and advice, but… you know.

So I guess I’d have to wing it, and maybe keep access to the videos limited to my students. If I’m going to do this, there’s no time like the present. Once I get the hang of it, maybe I can re-record everything and put it on YouTube…

Or not, actually. I mean, we’ll see, but I think it’s important to listen to what my anxiety is telling me. Right now, my anxiety is telling me that this isn’t a good time to teach myself to do something that I won’t enjoy and that won’t be rewarded with positive feedback or financial compensation.

What I actually enjoy is making slideshows, and I also enjoy making zines. Maybe, instead of trying to make videos that I will hate and (let’s be real) no one will watch, I could adapt my slideshows into zines. Printing isn’t that expensive, but it isn’t cheap either, so what I could do would be to make free PDF zines and then, once my finances are a bit more comfortable, print one or two that I think might attract interest. A zine based on my class session about urban legends might be good, for instance.

I don’t think making zines out of my lectures is going to win me fame and fortune, but you know what?

If your dream job doesn’t exist, perhaps you just have to make it yourself.

It Never Happened

It Never Happened is my second zine of horror-themed flash fiction. It collects fifteen very short stories, as well as a spooky comic (that you can find here) by the artist Frankiesbugs.

This is the zine description:

This zine collects fifteen short stories about finding oneself in strange circumstances and adjusting to a new normal. Nothing that takes place in these stories actually happened, of course. Most of what transpires is a little creepy, but it’s important to remember that none of this is real. If you read these stories, you might not be real either, but don’t let that stop you.

I love autobio comics, and a lot of these stories came from my failed attempts to write comic scripts. What I realized during this process is that it’s very difficult for me to talk about myself. Although I obviously have no trouble sharing my opinions, I never know what to say when I try to describe my own life. All of the stories in this zine are based on real experiences; but, as the title suggests, none of this ever actually happened.

Or rather, that’s not entirely true. One of these stories is 100% factually accurate, but I’m not going to say which one.

If you’re interested, there are still a few copies of this zine (on Etsy).