The Brontës and me

Jane Eyre was one of my favorite books as a kid, the memorable Joan Fontaine and Orson Welles movie version providing the visuals for its gothic intensity. In the taffy slow early days of the pandemic, I reread Charlotte Brontë’s classic, as well as her sister Emily’s harder-to-stomach Wuthering Heights. I went on a Brontë binge, reading biographies and articles about the family, their quirks and talents. The Brontës lived hard lives in hard times, none of the siblings making it to 40. Lately I’ve gotten caught up in the topic again, my 1:30am (or earlier!) insomnia bouts spent reading Claire Harman’s biography of Charlotte, A Fiery Heart.

Paging through the book feels strangely familiar. I already know the facts. Is this a re-read, my first go-round wiped out by pandemic stress? Did I crack open some similar biography between then and now? Everything new is old again. What strikes me this time around is the determination of the three spinster sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. Stuck at home with a dissipated brother and uninvolved curate father (their mother and two other sisters long dead), these women knew they had to take care of business. Money was tight. Remaining governesses or schoolteachers was unappealing. So the sisters decided to become published authors. Their first step was to have a collection of their poetry printed pseudonymously. From there they worked together (and sometimes separately) to write and shop their subsequent manuscripts out to publishers.

As the siblings were working on their publishing plan, their brother died of tuberculosis. Not long after their books were published, Emily and Anne succumbed to the disease.. About six years after later Charlotte passed away at 38, likely due to severe morning sickness.

The Brontës were a peculiar, self-contained set of siblings, from childhood onward caught up in writing elaborate and fantastical stories. Creation was part of how they navigated and tolerated the world. But why am I so taken their determination and penurious circumstances? Perhaps I need inspiration, a reminder to stay the course (or to at least get on the boat).

 I, dear reader, am also about to become a published author. What I have written has little in common with Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. Because it is in the self-help and self-development genre, it does not tell a melodramatic story or dazzle the mind with its extended and deep metaphors. But I worked hard at it, tried my best to make it useful and well-written, and got paid to do it. Having a deadline and a writing structure kept me going. It got me published by an actual publisher in a way that this blog, something I’ve been writing in for almost fourteen years, did not. 

Over the years, I’ve grappled with how I could do the sort of writing I enjoy, the stuff that shows up on writing survive, in a more public way, to allow the personal to exist within the professional. This brings up internal conflicts and questions. What does it mean to share my inner thoughts as a psychotherapist? What if this is terribly unprofessional? What happens if a client or a colleague reads this blog? Will anyone, outside of the perhaps three people who are longtime readers, care about what I write? What is the point of writing—here, or anywhere else? How do I make this authentic and yet appealing to others? What if my authenticity is unappealing to others?

Perhaps I think too much. Ultimately, I’d like to write here more often, and not completely anonymously. I don’t want to make a big deal out of this tentative plan or spend too much time crafting my posts. But I hope to slowly meld the personal and professional into something that has a shape and form, has a life of its own, and is authentically mine.

(Oh – and my book is called 52-Week Grief Journal:  Prompts and Reflections for Navigating Loss. For more information, take a look at amazon.)

Burnout

Lately, though a combination of a complicated home life, not having real time off for two and a half years, taking on a good (but time-consuming) writing project, dealing with what the rest of the world and country are dealing with, and perhaps getting inadvertently “triggered” by an ongoing situation, not to mention the death of Lorca – and the positive, yet stressful introduction of another galgo, Miguel, just last week . . . where was I? Oh, yes. A relative’s terminal illness, the ongoing housing of that relative, a stressful, emotionally draining job during a global pandemic, spending way too much time writing a book about how to process grief, a dead dog, a new dog, no time off, no fun time, the deletion of real family time . . . I am burned out.

I read about reincarnation and near-death experiences. I wonder about the expansiveness of consciousness and the interconnected nature of all things. I get caught up in Buster Keaton movies, drawn to that expressive face and the quietness of silence, a piano soundtrack to keep time with whatever is going on in my soul, the ghost in my machine. Body is mind, but mind is not body. My body attempts not to give up the ghost.

This is what I’ve been thinking lately (lately being this week) – what if I left my work behind? Stayed at home, tapped out my thoughts, attended to dogs and the home? The boy, big now and boisterous, doesn’t need me in the same way, and that’s ok. He’ll be gone soon, perhaps for good. But there is plenty to occupy me here, and without the noise of other peoples’ thoughts, the words could flow again

So, what does the rest of this life look like for this imprisoned ghost? How should I shape what remains of my career attending to the emotional needs of others? Am I in service or am I in connection? Yesterday, worn from everything, I decided to take a day off. Walks with my husband and the pups, a little Pilates, a lot of Buster Keaton, and very little work.  And here I am, writing. Thank goodness.

Intentions

The last several months have been difficult. On the good side, I’m almost done writing that book (details to be shared at a later date). Also on the good-in-a-bad-situation side, my sick relative has been through radiation and ongoing chemo, which, along with an earlier surgery, have been effective to date. To spread that good side stuff out a little further, it is also fortunate that we have the room for him to live with us, and that my husband has the capacity to do things like drive him to appointments. The boy is doing well in school, though I worry about the effects of the pandemic on his social development. And let’s not forget the fact that me, my husband, and the boy are all fully vaccinated and boosted and have remained healthy through the pandemic.

Having a semi-permanent houseguest for the last five months, however, has not been the greatest, for us and for the houseguest, though no one speaks about any of this directly. It’s unclear how long this situation will last. The sudden, acute illness and subsequent death of our galgo, Lorca, the week of Thanksgiving continues to be painful. Covid keeps coviding, with omicron leading us to cancel my mother’s holiday visit this year at the last minute. Every “vacation” I take involves some other form of work, and I’m burned out. And then there is the topic of my book, grief. I am sick to death of grief and living it, anticipating it, and writing about it.

So this morning, sitting on a couch in front of a Christmas tree we will dismantle today or tomorrow, our remaining dog curled by my side, I offer my intentions for 2022.

• Keep work contained to the office

• Take 4 weeks off, with coverage for clients and no other work scheduled

• Write more – for publication and for myself

• Cultivate and prioritize connection

• Be honest and firm

• Recognize and maintain boundaries

• Acknowledge reality

• Be kinder to myself, family, and friends

• Note my faults and foibles and accept them, while also continuing to grow and overcome

It’s hard to see the year ahead as full of happy possibilities. I have control over only so much. These intentions feel doable, though I may need to remind myself of them on occasion. So, um, happy new year.

Unedited

Last week. Family vacation, not too far away. Far-flung relative flew into town, rented car. Boy brought friend along for part of time. Sunday, August 8. End of family vacation. Relative has partial seizure 20 minutes before we were to leave.

Husband and relative off to local hospital. Relative stays there, husband ferries dogs, boy, and some stuff back home. I wait at vacation rental for tow truck to pick up brother’s rental car. Six hours later, have to leave with husband, who by end of day has driven the equivalent of one way to Los Angeles from Bay Area. Relative taken to SF hospital via ambulance. Brain tumor.

Brain tumor removed on Monday. Relative released yesterday (doing pretty well, considering — helps that tumor was close to skull). Waiting to hear what kind of glioma he has. Glioblastoma, thing that killed my dad, John McCain, Ted Kennedy, and Beau Biden (among others), statistically most likely. Still might be something less aggressive.

Relative staying with us indefinitely. Diagnosis, prognosis unclear. Lots of work, but hard to focus. Clients in dire straits. Many people needing therapy. Husband’s job also jam-packed with work and responsibilities. Boy starting challenging in-person school year. Potential book on the horizon (or not—hard to tell).

Back to it.

Out of and into the blue

A few weeks ago, in my professional context, I was contacted by a publishing company for a “paid writing opportunity.” The contact was random, the email imprecise, though a little digging indicated they were likely approaching me for a self-help style book. When I talked to the acquisitions editor, it was clear that the person did not know my psychotherapy specialties and likely had not looked at my website or professional blog, though someone from the company had done some sleuthing to find me in the first place. I rejected a few topics that were out of my scope of competence, finally choosing something of relative interest from an extensive list. One signed nondisclosure agreement later, I approved a very detailed outline. I just about had the writing sample in the bag when I heard back from the acquisitions editor. Someone had beaten me to the completed sample and had been chosen to write the book. They would contact me (perhaps) in the future for another topic.

This was a disappointment. It was also a relief, given the time to complete the ~200 page book was sixty days from the signing of the contract, two months that would overlap with the boy’s summer vacation and free time in perhaps one of the last summers he’ll be just hanging out. Even the process of completing the writing sample got in the way of family time, coming with my mother’s first visit in a year and a half. The topic didn’t set me on fire and the publishing company churns out material, so this offer was mixed. High art, or even low art, it was not. And I would have to enlist the support of my professional and personal community to generate some sort of buzz.

However, it would have been the first time I have really been paid for writing. It would have given me the experience of writing a book and the impetus to do so. Based on what I did for the writing sample, I have the capacity to write such a book. However, I have no idea what people are interested in reading and lack the confidence and internal motivation to complete a large-scale project. Meanwhile, I’m left with a fairly specific sample that includes multiple sections. Perhaps I can adapt it for my professional blog, but I’m not interested enough at this point to do the crafting. I’d much rather write about anxiety and it ties to our families or something that feels personal and universal all at once.

Anyway. I write it out here because I can’t share it elsewhere. And maybe they will be in touch again and I’ll get the contract and have something out there published under my name, circulating in the world. But the experience was so random and over so quickly that I wonder if it will be repeated—and whether there are other ways to incorporate serious writing into my life. After all, they found me after I revamped my professional blog. What would it be like to really focus on writing what I am interested in and finding an audience that way?