Bless Bakersfield's Heart
Perhaps moving into the heart of Hades wasn't the best idea.
Right now, in my home, all I hear is tap, tap, tap. A constant drip from a hose in my air conditioning unit that still needs repair. It’s 104 outside and while I’m grateful for some semblance of shelter from the heat, I can’t handle constant the drip. You might think it mad or silly, but certain sounds or smells feel like needles burrowing deeper into my skin. Daylight is an assault—too harsh of a sun and I need to retreat lest I feel faint. Every day, after the mile walk from the post office, I lie on my living room floor, in the complete dark, and close my eyes.
Make it all stop.
I came to Bakersfield to write. [Insert cackle on the level of screech here] I thought if I could have unmitigated quiet, a novel would somehow present itself. Poor, the magic novel about broken people who are essentially good though they tend to do bad, bad things.
The reality is I’m living in a town that somehow feels hotter than the actual desert, often surrounded by meth addicts whose appearance is apocalyptic. My home is a refuge and while it is the perfect place to create all I can write are personal essays. I struggle with this because I know essays are a valid and beautiful art form. Most of art is a reflection of self (whether the artist cares to admit it or not), but part of me upbraids myself. Isn’t this a little narcissistic? Why is that I seem to write best when I’m writing about myself? And the more I push away the desire to write and the more I hear the whispers of the business of publishing regaling sad stories about my Bookscan numbers, and maybe you should write in another genre, Felicia, the more I feel stuck.
It’s not that I can’t write a novel—it’s more like I don’t want to. And it’s not like I can’t write an essay collection—it’s more like the world of publishing doesn’t want me to. But I’m old enough (scratch that—seasoned) to realize I shouldn’t listen to nonsense I should just write, for some reason I’m stalled.
And every day in this lovely 1940s townhouse, in the middle of a downtown that feels downright spartan, is a reminder of what I haven’t accomplished.
I’m also noticing my cat getting thinner even though he eats house and home, and I try not to think about it, I can’t think about it because there’s literally nothing I can do until I sort this financial situation out.
On the phone last week with a friend, I wondered aloud why we couldn’t just create our art without the boulder of capitalism on our backs? Why can’t we just make enough to be content with minor pleasures without thinking of student loan payments, variable interest rates, or IRS repayment plans? Why can’t we just live like people trying to make sense of an already complicated world?
Instead, tap, tap, tap. Instead, a home admonishing you. Instead, a crippling fear of another cat dying. Instead, a feeling you weren’t meant to be this age, in this generation, in this world. Possibly you would’ve been suited for another time when cholera was a thing and the world was hard, but also simple.
On LinkedIn, a site that I’ve often labeled as the cesspool of posturing humanity, a predator posing as a house pet, I read a post penned by someone who suggests that all of marketing should report to PR. This coming from someone who actually doesn’t understand the role of marketing. This coming in an age of the toddler CMO where ChatGPT reigns supreme and a competent CMO is someone who dreams up a viral TikTok campaign. I want to engage, I want to respond instead of typing how can you be this ridiculous for clicks? Instead, I think—what’s the point. I’m feeding an algorithm by typing into the ether to strangers who all want to sell someone something.
And this is one of the countless reasons I’ve receded from the world. I stopped writing business articles (also, I’ve pretty much said all I’ve had to say in the literal thousands of pieces I’ve published). I’ve stopped guesting on business podcasts and putting myself out there because I honestly don’t care.
I like the work I do but loathe the way I’m forced to get it and get it done.
And while I realize I put myself in this situation instead of just accepting a full-time job or preening for connection or writing hot takes that are click-worthy (which is what one has to do these days to subsist), I also loathe that I had to make a choice to withdraw otherwise the world would steal a piece of me, every day, until there’s nothing left. I’ve made the calculations—suffering intact is far more rewarding than watching me scatter into pieces.
Does any of this make sense? Tap, tap, tap. [Reminder to change the bowl that’s capturing all of the leaking water while still feeling grateful for air conditioning]
On the phone last week with a friend, I apologized for not having more “updates,” not bringing the exciting bits to the table. For no longer feeling like one of the cool kids. For feeling stuck and wanting to create art but feeling the Sisyphean burden of commerce and forever worrying I’ll be crushed by it. For not having a project or something tangible to talk about, and she kindly reminded me that friends don’t need that. That we’re here for one another, not the things we produce.
I have to keep reminding myself that for the few who care, I am enough. I am not what I create or sell or market. I am not what I can do or offer.
For my paid peeps, I have a lovely writing essay coming soon to a theater near you.
I’m reading Deborah Levy’s latest and it’s glorious.
My career started in digital and social media, but now I’m grateful for it all to go away.
While tech bros prattle on about how generative AI will change books, I’m convinced these folks haven’t read a novel since college. Repeat after me: AI is a tool, not a replacement. And when you start to think replacement is when it gets dangerous. Lobster coming to boil in a pot kind of dangerous. Have we not seen this Black Mirror nonsense that’s actually happening?
My friend Arestia sent this to me and it is all kinds of honest. Ah, the glory of ageism in an allegedly woke age.
Maybe Bakersfield itself is asking you to write about the city (and it's people)? I dunno.
Regarding ageism: I crossed 25 years at my company last fall, and now I get to field questions about retiring and jabs about the music I'm listening to from coworkers who weren't yet born when I hired on. Mostly I just wonder where the f**k the time has gone.
I understand not wanting to write another novel. So what would you actually love to write? What about working for a magazine or book publisher?
My suggestion is to figure out what you've love to do...then do it!
Love and Hugs!
Linda