So kind of the universe, giving us a reason to embrace the night on the darkest day of the year. I’m talking about The Great Conjunction, when Jupiter and Saturn approached one another for a kiss. 

It happened just after sundown on the solstice and there’s a good chance you heard about it. It was all over the news, apparently. Maybe no one had anything else to do.

I was feeling a little down on the day of the solstice but I went out anyway. I worried I was too late. It was supposed to happen right after sundown; I left an hour later. My weathertweeters tweeted that it would be a cloudy night, the conjunction might be a bust. But a walk was a walk, and that night, I would walk upon bridges with a view. I walked in front of a fire station as the engine was pulling out. It nearly hit me. It pulled out of the driveway and set its sirens to scream. I came upon the first bridge, past a gaggle of tourists looking expectantly southwest. But the clouds had not parted. There were no stars or planets to be seen, only a dim half-moon through moving clouds. 

I went to the next bridge because the clouds could be different over there. Here, people were stretched out all across the bridge, sticking their noses and binoculars through fence posts, readying their cameras but not snapping pictures just yet, the clouds were still too low. Here I paused to wait. The moon was a half-round of babybel cheese. The road curved down below. The police had created a barricade down there, only in one direction. The cars were piling up, confused, honking, probably trying to get home for dinner. I pulled out my phone and my stargazing app so it could tell me where the planets were supposed to be. I took off my gloves. The cold made my skin raw and rigid. 

Then the clouds parted. And there it was. 

The Great Conjunction. A dot of light, and, if you really really squinted, another tiny dot right next to it. (See shitty iPhone photo above).

I looked up and saw through the thinning clouds Mars shining brightly overhead. Mars was all alone, hoping someone would see it. Yet everyone was looking forward over the police barricades. Over what might have been a river long ago. I turned my attention back to the Conjunction. Into the horizon made of dark buildings that look like trees and radio towers and satellites and all the blinking brightness flying and floating by. A satellite passed the Great Conjunction as if it didn’t notice it at all. Two became three, then two again. 

I don’t know why but I kinda teared up. Just the feeling that these dots are their own worlds. These twin touching planets, which in reality sit four hundred and fifty million miles apart, have each other. I imagined someone on Saturn looking out and seeing Earth and Jupiter kiss. Three Earths can fit in Jupiter’s red stormy eye. We are so small. And so are they. Two tiny dots. One even smaller than the other from here, with rings that could fit one billion Earths, rings made of shattered moons. 

Just then I heard someone nearby say, “Are you sure those are the planets? I heard a star duo had a similar plan tonight.”

I was sure. I had this strange feeling that I was looking at the right thing. And, of course, I had my app. 

-Denise

— 

Do you like year-end roundups around NYE? I’m cool with them. It’s kinda nice. Yeah we all went through shit too, but it’s nice to highlight the positives. Here are some of my writing accomplishments from this year: 

“Old Charles”: A flash story published in Flash Fiction Magazine. I later read this story on stage at the Pie Shop with The Inner Loop, which was an incredible experience. I nearly cried on stage and I still don’t know why.

“The Florida Regiment”: My first paid fiction publication, for Mystery Weekly. This was me saying “what if I write a noir story lol.” It was fun. 

“Mount P”: Reprint publication in Vastarien. 

“One Day Closer”: Acceptance from The Forge (forthcoming May 2021 but I already have an author page!) 

“Standing Around the Kitchen Table”: Acceptance from Neutral Spaces Magazine (forthcoming in January or so) 

That’s about it for publications. But most of my accomplishments have been a bit more private. I finished a novel, and three agents have requested a full manuscript of it. I nearly finished a short story collection exploring climate change solutions. I started a second novel and am feeling really good about it. I quit my job to commit to the craft. I started freelancing/contracting and got my first client so eventually I can just do freelance work while I write all the dang time. 

I’m incredibly lucky to have the time, resources, and mental stamina to focus on this. Coronavirus has been hell for so many reasons but I am lucky to have a passion that thrives in solitude, and the weird motivation to write through my pain.

What were your top moments this year? I’d love to hear from you.

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year. But winter has just arrived. Winter has put on its boots and is getting ready to walk all over us. Winter has found the restaurant with outdoor heaters and plastic bubbles and is ready to post up for a while. Winter arrived at the restaurant two minutes before closing time with ten of Winter’s closest friends and thank god they got there just in time, they’re starving, what’s tonight’s special? 

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year, but things won’t get immediately better from there. The cold is just settling in. The northern hemisphere will take awhile to remember the sun. 

Last week was DC’s first “big winter storm” of the season. My local weathertweeters (Capital Weather Gang) posted approximately a million forecasts ahead of time. They posted updates about forthcoming updates. Then the forecasts kept going down. Sixteen inches. Fourteen inches. Ten inches. Potentially zero inches — BUT POTENTIALLY SIXTEEN AGAIN! It was too warm for the great big storm. It was warm enough for the shitty mixed-weather storm. There would be a flood watch. There would be an ice watch. There would be a watch for the flood watch and a watch for the ice watch. My watch has indiglo. This feels important. 

On Wednesday morning, the snow started coming down in thick white dabs. We opened our windows for a better look. The brick alleyway behind our house was coated in an inch. Brick alleyways, brick walls, these things are meant for snow. Then, sure enough, after we had enough snow for a good tease, it started raining, and it didn’t stop, and the wind picked up. 

When you’re stuck at home all day every day forever, you become a creature of habit. I like to run or do yoga in the morning, and walk around town in the evening. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a little slush-snow-shittiness. I put on thick socks and rain boots. I grabbed a leopard-print umbrella. As soon as I started walking, I realized there was a tiny hole in my right boot. A little dampness seeped in. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a little dampness. I kept walking; the dampness enveloped my whole foot. The wind turned out my umbrella five times. I was not about to cancel my evening walk for a broken umbrella. Nothing climactic happened here. I finished the walk a little wet and quite cold. The next morning, I went on my morning run. Much of the rain had slicked to ice overnight, but I was not about to cancel my morning run for a little ice. I jogged carefully, very slowly, taking great care to avoid the black spots. Ten minutes in, though, there was a huge giant patch of ice that looked so much like water I decided to go through it. There was no stopping the fall. My left foot went to the right, my right foot followed, my body fell left, I brought out my arms to stop me. I fell on my forearms. Five or so years ago, I slipped on ice during a run and fell straight on my chin, requiring me to get stitches for the first and last time. That didn’t happen this time. I was fine. Not even a bruise. I got up and kept running. I ran weirdly and awkwardly to avoid the ice, perhaps a little twistedly. Near the end, my knee felt a tweak from all the twisting pivots. At this point I gave in. I was not about to injure my knee for an unnecessary morning habit. I walked the rest of the way home. 

Things will get worse before they get better. Actions have consequences. Covid-19 is at its worst looking backward but not looking forward. The earth’s memories of the darkest night will continue to bring cold and shitty storms. 

But the days will get lighter, as will our minds, and soon, we will open our newly vaccinated arms to a nine o’clock sunset, and until then, we will look forward to it. 

-Denise

PS: I have two pieces of good news this week. An old story of mine called “Mount P.” was just reprinted in a cool and creepy anthology called Vastarien, named after a story written by horror writer Thomas Ligotti. Two summers ago, this story was accepted by three different publications almost simultaneously, and I kinda thought this third publication forgot about me until this week. The story is pretty short and kinda weird, which are two things I guess “the market” likes. So if you’d like to purchase the anthology to see other creepy stories and beautiful original artwork, click here. Or, you could read Mount P. where it was previously published here. 

The other good news is that a story I wrote over the summer was just accepted for publication. I wrote it when I was mad at my mom’s former boss. It’s about climate change at a nursing home, and it’ll be published in The Forge literary magazine in May 2021. It’s called “One Day Closer.” 

I’m particularly happy about these developments because both publications pay! I’ve been in a bit of an acceptance slump lately, ever since I started limiting where I submit to journals that either pay something decent-ish or are prestigious in some way. So this is a nice milestone that I crossed twice in one week. (Actually, twice in one day – I learned about both on Monday.) I’m going to use some of the earnings to buy new rain/snow boots so I can stomp around with dry feet. I’m dreaming of yellow Sperrys. 

I was nervous last Sunday night. 

I was nervous about waking up on Monday and having it be the same as Sunday, and Tuesday being the same as Monday, Wednesday the same as Tuesday, Thursday the same, empty, a void… 

It was my first Sunday in the unknown land of unemployment. My first Sunday with a week ahead with no work and nothing to worry about, nothing except for what I brought upon myself. I didn’t realize I was scared, but I did realize I was in a mood. I was sensitive and irritable. I was frustrated about… ah. Nothing. There was nothing worth getting frustrated about. I told myself to stop being frustrated. That didn’t work. 

So instead I went to bed, and then it was Monday morning. A whole day, week, year ahead of me. And I got to work. 

It’s not difficult for me to fill my days. I made a daily schedule and a list of weekly goals. I wrote, wrote some more, read, ran, walked, cleaned, accidentally stumbled my way into some freelance work, edited some things, I don’t even know else at this point, I basically was in a fugue state until Tuesday night. 

Tuesday night: I had to finish a proposal, then had scheduled an interview with a comedian friend of mine who just started a podcast called Campaign Season. I spent forty minutes or so preparing things to say that would be witty, enlightening, and/or brilliant; then twenty minutes telling myself to relax; and then it began. Of course, the questions he ended up asking were none of the ones I had prepared for, so I forgot about all my brilliant witticisms (they were fine), but it was a fun and fruitful conversation. We talked about my time working on climate policy during Trump-world, the dread and nihilism that can come with climate advocacy, and… the time I sorta cursed out an anti-masker. (Sorry mom.) (It’s not available to listen to just yet – I’ll share a link when it is.)

When it was over, my nerves were on fire. I’ve done a fair few public interviews over the years — on both sides of the microphone — so this wasn’t new. But still, my adrenaline was going. There is a very particular state of mind in these situations that requires laser focus: you’re zeroing in on the words coming out of your mouth, while also strategizing about what to say next to keep the conversation going. (I understand this is also how you might define hanging out with your friends, but it’s … not the same? Okay, it’s almost the same.)

Anyway, after we wrapped up, I went on a walk to shake off the adrenaline. It was nighttime, a little cold, so I pulled on my hat and plugged in a podcast. But fifteen minutes into my walk, I realized I hadn’t heard a single word of the podcast. My mind was jabbering. Loudly! My mind was yelling at me, replaying all the things I said, and all the things I wish I’d said. I had to turn it off. I had to listen to … 

nothing. 

I was so nervous on Sunday about facing nothingness. The empty abyss of time. The days stretching into one another, passing by with no forward movement. So I filled up this open space with thing after thing after thing. Even then, after the interview, I felt like I needed to do something productive, so I picked a podcast that also served as background research for my next novel. I was so worried about letting this time go to waste that I almost drove myself crazy. 

I’ve said it before, but the writing life requires a lot of waiting. Right now, three agents are reading my full novel manuscript — by which I mean my novel is one of many on their long list of novels to read. It could be months before I hear back. Then, if someone accepts it, they have to sell it to a publishing house. More waiting. After that, there can be up to two more years before publication. In the meantime, I’m trying to sell short stories, so I’m waiting and waiting and hoping for some good news. 

I wanted to write ‘noticements’ because I believe every moment could be worth noticing. I still believe that… but it’s pretty overwhelming! Turns out there are, like a billion moments in any given day, and each one has potential, and if I’m missing it, what next? 

My moment of mind-yelling adrenaline reminded me I need to become more comfortable with nothingness. With the abyss. With moments of rest. To turn off the podcast and float in silence. 

Sometimes, moments are worth noticing… and sometimes they’re not. 

-Denise

I quit my job this week. 

No, that’s not quite right. You could say I quit four months ago, when I publicly announced I’d be leaving. 

Or maybe in April, when I finalized my end date.

Or maybe last November, when I told my boss I was applying for grad school, and that if I didn’t get in, I’d leave either way to study on my own. 

Or maybe two Augusts ago, when I was walking around Brooklyn and realized, oh my god, I want to write, I want to apply for grad school or take a year off, and I’m really going to do it. 

Point is, if there were an award for longest exit transition from a job ever (excluding retirement),  I’m pretty sure I’d take the gold medal. I’ve been anticipating this for a long time. I’ve been anticipating closure from the past four years of my life. 

I wondered what that would feel like. Closure. 

My last day was on Tuesday, but I scheduled a meeting for Thursday, and had a goodbye virtual happy hour on Friday. Even in the final week, my exit was drawn out. In limbo. No goodbyes yet, no closure. 

After I wrapped up Tuesday, I didn’t have time for closure. I had a virtual writing group to attend, then I passed out at nine o’clock. I was exhausted. The next day, I made myself busy with a host of other things. Life-putting-back-together things. Figuring out health insurance and my 401(k). Writing this and that, reading that and this. Signing up for a writing class. Picking up a library book. Picking out Chanukah gifts. Sending Chanukah gifts. 

My final task for the day was mailing the gifts. I wondered, should I go to UPS, Fedex or the Post Office? The Post Office had closed by the time I was walking around Columbia Heights, and FedEx was closer to me, so there it was. Then I had to choose, express mail? Fragile mail? How long would each take, were my gifts fragile enough to require the extra padding, how rough do the FedEx workers treat the non-fragile packages, do they throw them around like footballs or place them underneath bowling balls? I chose the fragile, non-express option. The FedEx worker who checked me out wore a mask that said “FedEx strong” and a livestrong-esque bracelet that said “Wish.” He looked about twenty but had the confidence of someone aged forty (though I suppose that’s a trait of most twenty-year-olds). Someone walked in with a package ready to go and, even though I got there first, the FedEx worker took this ready-to-go package and sent it off. The benefits of being prepared. I didn’t care, I had nothing to do after this. Someone else walked in and asked, “Do you deliver to P.O. boxes?” FedEx-strong-man said, with pride, “Nope, that’s literally the only thing FedEx doesn’t do.” As if aside from delivering to P.O. boxes, FedEx could save the world. Then he attended to my packages, and that was that. 

Afterwards, I walked. I didn’t have anywhere to go, I just wanted to walk. The sun had barely set, the night was new, everyone was outside because what else was there to do. I walked on sidewalks that sloped downwards and upwards. Curb ramps with bumpy rumble strips. I became intensely focused on equilibrating the feeling of my feet. Every time my right foot stepped on a crack, I needed to even it out with my left. Every time the left came down on a bumpy rumble strip with those little cement balls, the right had to do so on the next. The crack-to-foot location and intensity mattered as well. Top of the left hard, top of the right hard. Back of the right heel, you know how it goes. It’s a weirdly soothing game that borders on mental insanity if you try too hard. Sometimes I don’t even realize I am playing it until I find myself jumping to reach a rumble strip with the correct foot, when I have to tell myself to calm down, that it’s okay if the feeling in the feet is slightly different, it all evens out in the end. 

This is when I realized I had closure. 

Closure is not some big, cinematic thing. It is simply the realization that your mind can be occupied by something different. That your previous worries are gone. And that’s that. 

For the first time in a long time, I had the mental space to focus on the feeling of my feet. 

-Denise

14th Street NW