#also if this is meant to be in uncharted deep space lands then why does that kid have a guardians logo notebook hmmmm

[phantastragoria]

Okay I do kind of like the apparent remnants of his mask being used as sort of makeshift goggles but THEY SHAVED PETE... this is sick and twisted.

[justthehiddleswrites]

The Reluctants | Chapter 4 | The Reluctant Embrace

Pairing: Adam (OLLA) x OFC (Charlie Bock)

Summary:  Charlie can’t believe her luck when she lands an apartment all to herself in Quincy, Massachusetts in a decaying triple decker. But life gets more complicated when someone moves into the basement. Specifically her landlord, Adam, who also happens to be a vampire. As life collapses around Charlie, these two forge an uneasy and unlikely relationship. But is their relationship as doomed as the building they live in?

Chapter:  As Adam and Charlie enter into uncharted territory with this new arrangement, things get complicated. Charlie tries to re-establish order. It fails.

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Frottage, Dry Humping, Teasing, Coming In Pants, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex. Couch Sex. Kidnapping. Stalking. Non-Graphic Violence, Character Death

-

Adam offered Charlie a spot on the sofa which gladly she took, folding her hands in her lap.

“I can’t ask you to do this.” Adam offered.

“You’re not. I’m offering.” She squirmed under Adam’s stare. “It’s different. It’s not like I am under some thrall or something.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Stop reading books about vampires. It’s all bullshit.”

“Except for the blood and sunlight.”

“Yes.”

“So are you in? Otherwise, I need to find somewhere to move.” Charlie pressed the issue.

“Fine.” Adam huffed.

Charlie squealed, bouncing in place. Adam’s eyes focused on Charlie’s chest for a moment too long, his mind wondering if she bothered to put on a bra or not to see him. She blushed when she followed his gaze, crossing her arms.

“So… so… How would this work?” she stuttered, conscious of everything.

Adam licked his lips in hunger. “I would feed off your blood. Preferably every few days.”

Charlie gulped. “Would you need to bite me?”

“Yes.” Adam hummed, his fangs becoming more prominent. “I can show you.”

“Now?!”

“Can you think of a better time?” Adam snapped back.

“No.” Charlie fidgeted a bit before leaning her head away.

“No, not there. Give me your arm.” Adam commanded.

Charlie’s left arm shot out. Adam’s fingers slid along her hand as he turned her hand palm facing up. The callous on the index finger caught on her wrist.

“The radial and ulnar arteries run through the arm.” Adam traced two lines of each side of Charlie’s wrist. The hair on her arm stood on end. “They carry oxygenated blood to the hands.”

He lifted her wrists to his lips. Adam’s stubble rubbed against the delicate skin, leaving a red mark as he nuzzled his nose, inhaling her. Charlie didn’t seem as he expected. He expected something… well feminine. Flowers, sugar, something sweet. She instead smelled of bay rum and citrus. It made his head spin.

“I’ve already eaten today, so I won’t feed long.” Adam reassured Charlie, and she sighed in relief. “Relax.”

Charlie recognized Adam’s lips were soft and warm, she had thought they would be cold. As Adam’s fangs sunk into her wrist, she hummed.

Adam’s mouth filled with Charlie’s blood and realized he was more hungry than he let on. It had been a long time since he had a “warm meal”. And Charlie tasted delicious. He wanted to drink all of her. He pulled away. His tongue licking away an errant drop from his lip.

“And see,” he turned her wrist to face her. “the bleeding is already stopped. Here.” He rose and grabbed an old t-shirt, ripping it. Adam wrapped the strip tight around the wound. “Keep that in place for at least an hour.”

He patted on the makeshift bandage, his fingers lingered.

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought.” Charlie whispered, feeling somewhat lightheaded, not sure if it was the blood loss or something else. “I will see myself out.”

Adam stood as Charlie did, his arms hanging tight at his side. He didn’t know how to quite end such an encounter.

“I’ll see you in a few days.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll come down the interior stairs after sunset. Does that work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Charlie gave a slight smile.

“Thank you.” Adam repeated back, the corners of his mouth twitched into an almost half smile.

Charlie disappeared up the stairs while Adam shut the door with a soft click. He pressed his head against the wood.

-

Charlie and Adam continued on just as they had agreed. Adam would feed on her every few days, always the wrists. And Charlie continued living upstairs. One day, Charlie stopped as Adam took his seat on the couch as he always had.

“Is there a problem?” he inquired. He had been following the arrangement to a T, despite his libido’s desire to do more.

“I need you to not feed from my wrists today.” Charlie mumbled, her hands twisting in front of her body. She plopped down beside him. She continued to fidget beside him.

“Why not?”

“Because I have a job interview at Sheffield and Wyatt and I would rather not have to explain why my wrists are bandaged.”

“Cover them up.” Adam retorted, in a flat tone. The alternative was too dangerous.

“I can’t!” Charlie’s voice broke. “It will look like I’m trying to hide something.”

“You are.”

“Please. Just this one time.” Charlie begged.

Adam contemplated his options. He could refuse to feed, but the fatigue coursed through his body. He didn’t want to be weak like that for another moment, let alone another day.

“Lie down on the couch.” Adam snapped, regretting already what he was about to do.

“What?” Charlie stiffened, wishing she had changed before coming down to meet him.

“If I am to feed from your neck, you will become weak sooner than the wrists. I can’t have you passing out in the process.”

“Okay.” She tugged her jean shorts down, doing little to cover up before lying on the sofa.

Adam tugged at his trousers for different reasons and settled behind her.

“Apologies for the tight fit. Unless you would prefer to do so in the bedroom.”

“No!” Charlie jerked her head to face him. “No. Here is fine.”

Adam pressed against the back of the couch, trying to put any space between his bare chest and Charlie’s bare arm. It wasn’t working. He leaned forward to brush her dark curls away, exposing the soft skin of her neck.

“Just breathe.” he whispered to her. Adam’s breath fanned across the skin behind her ear. Goosebumps broke out on her arms. She exhaled a shaky breath.

“So where will you feed?” Charlie’s voice wavered.

If she tilted her head slightly to the left, then their noses would bump which meant inevitably their lips would touch. And Charlie would have plausible deniability for kissing Adam. And how she wanted to kiss him. Her chest ached when she took a deep breath and inhaled that scent of sandalwood and men’s cologne.

Adam ignored Charlie squirming for the moment, her thighs rubbing together, while he traced the curve of her neck. His backside pressed as far back as he could manage without becoming part of the fabric of the sofa, his cock threatened to ruin everything.

“So the carotid artery.” His fingers danced across Charlie’s neck. Adam marveled at how perfect, how exquisite Charlie’s neck was. Not a blemish, not a freckle. A perfect canvas. And he would be the artist. “takes the oxygenated blood to the brain, neck and face.”

“Oh, I see. Will it hurt more than the wrist?” Charlie’s chest was heaving at this point and she was certain she would need a fresh pair of underwear.

“Much more.” He leaned in. Charlie smelled of bay rum and flowers. A heady combination of her shampoo and the boutique perfume she always wore. “And if you move, I might accidently rip open the artery. Can stay still while I feed or should I hold you down?”

Adam’s hair tickled her shoulder. “It might be best if you hold me down.” Adam’s eyes widened. “We don’t want to take any chances do we?”

“Of course not.” He wrapped his arm around her ribcage, pushing her into the cushions. His thumb grazed the underside of her chest. Adam wrapped his foot around her ankle, locking her in place. “Ready?”

Charlie gulped and nodded before closing her eyes and tilting her chin away from Adam. The tip of his nose moved along her cheek and his lips ghosted over the crook of her neck. She jumped when his stubble scratched along her skin. Adam pulled Charlie tight to him.

“I promise to be quick.” His voice deep in his chest.

He licked her right as his fangs sunk into her and Adam felt the soft pop of the carotid. Charlie whimpered as Adam suckled and fed. His mouth ignited every nerve in her body. She never felt more alive and aroused than lying there in Adam’s arms.

Adam realized as he fed on Charlie, inhaling the smell of bay rum and catching a whiff of her arousal, he had royally fucked up. He should have insisted on feeding her anywhere else. The crook of the elbow, the knees. Hell, the ankles. And here he was with Charlie pressed against him, his thumb threatening to inched upward to pinch her nipple and his fangs deep in her neck with his cock straining against his jeans. He recognized he was past the point of no return and all he could do was move forward and pray Charlie didn’t run.

“Are you all right?” he inquired as he pulled away. Droplets trickled from the puncture marks. Adam used the tip of his tongue to swipe them away. Charlie shuddered against him.

“Fine.” She tilted up to gaze at Adam to find him looking at her with a strange look, not the I’m-too-cool gaze he normally wore. “Are you okay?” Charlie reached out and touched his chest. His shirt, as usual, unbuttoned and hanging loose.

“No am I not.” Adam’s voice low and drawn out even more than usual.

“Do you need to feed some more? Perhaps you are still hungry.”

“Yes, I am.” He leaned forward and Charlie tilted so he could feed some more only to gasp as she felt not fangs but Adam’s soft lips against her neck. She curved into his lips.

“What are you doing?” she breathed, turning to lie flat. Adam twisted to lie on top of her.

“Making either the best or worst decision of my life.” he muttered as he covered her mouth with his.

Charlie’s hands moved to cup his face, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Adam’s nose nudged against hers, his mouth open panting. Charlie slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasting blood and mint. Adam followed. She tasted of peach lip gloss and earl grey tea. He wanted more. Adam wanted to inhale her. He could devour her right there and he knew it would not be enough.

He pulled the two of them to sitting, Charlie straddling his hips. His cock teasing the crotch of Charlie’s shorts. Adam’s hands pawed at the ridiculous cartoon tee shirt Charlie wore, squeezing her tits.

Charlie groaned and her back arched at Adam’s touch. “More.”

Adam smirked into her neck and squeezed again, only to be rewarded by not only another moan but Charlie’s hips grinding against him. Denim on denim. Delicious friction.

“Fuck.” he cursed into her mouth, desperate to taste her again. Adam’s hands traveled down Charlie’s curves to light on her hips. His fingers bruised through the material.

“Hmm.” Charlie hummed as she nipped along Adam’s neck. His mouth fell open when she licked along the curve of his own neck, mirroring the spot where he had fed just moments ago.

“Don’t stop.” Adam pleaded, at the mercy of this human, this woman. Charlie.

She bit down on him, and he groaned bucking into her. Her hands splayed across the taut muscles of Adam’s torso, caressing each angle and ripple, reveling in his beauty. Charlie continued to grind against Adam’s lap as he massaged and fondled her tits. He moaned against her mouth as he came, ruining his favorite jeans. He was still hard. His hands slipped under her shirt and snaked their way to the clasp of her bra. She pulled his hand away and stilled.

“I think I should go.”

“I think you should stay.” Adam countered, placing a kiss on her lips and moved to deepening it before Charlie turned her head away.

“I think I should go. This is supposed to be a business arrangement.”

Adam huffed. “I just came in my pants, darling. I believe our business arrangement is over.” He nuzzled against her, peppering her collarbone with kisses and love bites. She spied the large wet spot on the crotch of his pants, wondering how much was Adam and how much was her.

“No, no no!” Charlie rolled off of Adam. “This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”

Adam pulled her onto his lap. He pressed his forehead against Charlie’s. “Is that all you want? Because if that is the case, we can forget about this and go back to the way things were.”

“I didn’t say that.” she shrugged her shoulders. “You are an excellent kisser.”

“Centuries of experience. You should see what else I can do with my tongue.” He kissed her again, pecking her lips over and over, tongue teasing the inside of her top lip.

“I don’t fuck musicians.”

“And I don’t fuck zombies.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know but it is better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Jerking off to lesbian porn.”

Charlie laughed and stood on wobbly legs, Adam steadied her. “I’m leaving. And if I hear any moaning down here, I am calling the cops.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

“You could just stay and you know watch it with me. Or we could do other things?” Adam ran a finger along her waistband.

“I better not but I would very much like to see you tomorrow and do this again.”

“Yes.” Adam stated.

“Goodbye Adam.” Charlie leaned down and kissed his lips. Adam got an eyeful down her shirt and spied the blue lacy bra.

“Wear that bra again and you’re on.”

“Deal.”

“Goodnight Charlie.”

Adam held onto her hand until his arm stretched no further and his fingers lost purchase with hers. He fell back against the couch as the basement door shut and he heard Charlie’s footsteps up the stairs to her own apartment.

“FUCK!” he hissed, not too loud so Charlie didn’t overhear through the thin floors. He rose from the couch and to find a clean pair of trousers and a towel to clean himself up.

-

Charlie fidgeted the entire way down the basement stairs the next night. She adjusted her top. Another one of her favorite t-shirts. It was broken in by the hundreds of washing, so much you could barely make out the Bruins logo on the front. And it was so thin, you could see the blue lacy bra through the material. A deal was a deal and Charlie intended to honor it. She knocked on the door at the foot of the stairs.

“You know you don’t have to knock.” Adam leaned against the door frame. He wore dark rust red pajamas. The pants hung loose and low around his hips and the top unbuttoned halfway. “You are the only one that uses this door.” He huffed before his lips curled into a devilish grin.

“Manners matter.” Charlie stated matter of fact, hoping she wouldn’t lose her resolve before she even got into the apartment. “May I come in?”

“I don’t plan on making out with you on the stairs, so yes.” Adam bowed to let Charlie in and for once it was her turn to roll her eyes.

“I appreciate your restraint. Now I just have—”

She was cut off by Adam’s mouth on hers. His tongue tasting and licking the inside of her mouth. He tasted that she wore that cheap cherry Chapstick. The kind that tasted nothing like cherries and everything like cough syrup and petroleum. For a moment, she melted against him, her hands reaching underneath the satin material of his shirt to splay across his stomach. And then she remembered herself.

Charlie stepped out of the embrace and into the kitchen, sitting down at the cluttered table. Adam’s brow furrowed. Not a good sign.

“Why are you carrying that?” He jabbed his finger at the legal pad and pen in Charlie’s hand, which she placed on the corner where she cleared some room. “Are you planning on taking notes?” Charlie didn’t laugh.

“Not exactly.”

She folded her hands on top of the pad. Charlie gestured for Adam to take the seat across from her. He ignored her directions to flip the chair next to her backwards to straddle it, his arms propped up on the back of the chair. Adam leaned over to ghost his lips across the nape of her neck, pushing her hair aside. Goosebumps again. His tongue darting along the curve of her neck.

“I thought you were here to have some fun?” Adam’s voice rattled in his chest, like a deep resonate note from an upright bass. The sound went straight to Charlie’s core.

“I did. But before that, if we are going to continue down the path and venture, I think some ground rules and a framework need to be agreed upon.” The words tumbled out of her mouth as a huge run-on sentence before uncapping her pen.

Adam sat back in the chair. “We already have ground rules. No fucking.” he attempted, but he knew that once Charlie set her mind to it, there was no deterring her. The incident with the speakers proved that much.

“That is a rule, not the rules.” She huffed, recapping your pen. “If you’re not willing to negotiate, then I can just leave.” She stood up, pressing against Adam in the process. Just because she wanted some rules, didn’t mean she wasn’t horny as fuck.

Adam snatched her wrist and pulled her back into the chair with a snap. She landed hard on the cushion. “Ow.” She rubbed her bottom in mock pain, as the shock hurt more than the actual injury.

“Talk.”

Charlie smiled and wiggled in the chair as she uncapped her pen again and wrote 1. No fucking in big looping cursive.

“And bottoms and underwear should remain on at all times. Just in case one or both of us loses self-control.”

“I have excellent self- control.” Adam scoffed, he was losing interest in this pointless exercise.

“Who came in their pants yesterday?”

“Who helped?” he countered. “Can we hurry this along?”

Charlie smirked, writing 2. Bottoms and underwear remain on at all times.

Adam leaned over to read. “Except your bra.” He tapped the paper.

“The bra is remaining on.”

“Bra is off. Your tits are magnificent.” Adam nuzzled against Charlie’s neck.

“I’ll compromise. Bra unclasped, straps remain on the shoulders. You will have to get creative.”

Adam nipped her neck with his teeth causing her to jump. He chuckled against Charlie. “I’m an artist, I am nothing if not creative.”

This continued several more minutes until the following rules were created:

1. No fucking.

2a. Bottoms and underwear shall remain on at all times.

2b. Bra may unclasped but straps must remain on shoulders.

3a. Adam’s hands must remain on top of the clothing mentioned in (1) at all times. No rubbing on Charlie’s genital area with hands or fingers without prior permission. Permission may not be given during the session.

3b. Charlie’s hands can go wherever the fuck she wants them to go. Rubbing of Adam’s cock is encouraged. Adam says fuck permission.

Adam leaned over and read it, “Are you really going to leave it like that?”

“You said word to word.”

“Fine.”

4. Bedrooms are strictly off limits.

“There. Sign.” Charlie slid the paper over after signing it herself. Adam huffed once.

“In order?” He stood from his perch. Charlie nodded pushing the pad off to the side. “Good.” He spun her chair around and lifted her onto the table. Adam tugged roughly at her shirt and stretched it over her head.

“Hey, I like that shirt.”

“I like that shirt on the floor.” Adam moved to bite Charlie’s lower lip, rewarding him with a whimper. “Did you have your interview today at Sheffield and Wyatt?”

“Yes. Do you want to know how it went?”

“No.” Adam growled. He used his hips to push Charlie’s legs apart, standing in between.

He cupped her face as his tongue licked the inside of her mouth. She groaned against him, scooting to the edge of the table. Charlie pushed his shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. Her nails dug in his sides as she pulled Adam closer to her core.

Adam smiled against her mouth as his hands traveled to Charlie’s back and popped the clasp of her bra with ease. The bra loosen and Adam cupped her chest, squeezing them. Charlie’s breasts were heavy in his hands. Adam lowered his head, pushing her bra up and sucked her nipples.

“Hey!” Charlie jumped back although not moving out of Adam’s reach, her voice heavy. “That’s against the ground rules.”

“Check your paper.” Adam nuzzled himself in her cleavage. Charlie leaned back and twisted the pad to read.

“Shit.”

Adam chuckled. “You forgot about mouths. Now let’s put that self-control to the test.”

He pulled her tight against him, pulling her legs to wrap around his waist. Adam rutted against her. His hands mauled against her breasts, pinching at her nipples. Charlie moaned and whimpered as Adam crushed his lips against her already swollen lips.

Soon, her coil grew tight inside her core, she whined and gasped as her release grew closer. Adam lowered his head and sucked upon her nipples.

“Oh god!” Charlie yelled as she came, soaking through her clothes.

Adam’s head fell into the crook of Charlie’s neck as he bucked against her one more time as he reached his own release. He would have to do laundry more often at this rate. Charlie relaxed while Adam slumped against her. The two of them using each other to support their bodies. Each of them breathed heavy.

Charlie pushed her curls off her face. “So…” she clapped her hands against the table until she found her legal pad. “… I think the rules work.” She lied.

“No.” Adam growled.

“Excuse me?” Charlie blinked at Adam’s sour expression. She slid off the table. “They… they… are great.” Her voice an octave higher than usual.

“They’re bullshit. A feeble attempt to deny what this is.” Adam towered over her, backing her against the table, jostling the contents. “Denying yourself. Zombies.” Adam spat.

“Adam!” Charlie screamed. “Don’t fucking call me that!” She ducked under his arm and stormed off towards the stairs. With his unnatural speed, Adam ran to block her path.

“I’m sorry.” Adam mumbled.

“What did you say?” the tiniest hint of a smile at the corners of Charlie’s lips.

“I’m not repeating myself.”

“I will just assume you apologized and agree the rules are perfect. Goodnight, Adam.” She moved to walk up the stairs but Adam didn’t budge.

“Tomorrow?” Adam pulled her against him, her body still warm from their earlier tryst. “Unless you would prefer to stay.” He dug into her hips. Charlie bit her lip to hold back a moan.

“I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Since when have we ever come up with a good idea?” Adam leaned down to kiss her, but she turned away.

“Night, Adam.” Charlie stated as firmly as she could before walking up the stairs. “Tomorrow.” she called after him. Adam’s mind is already turning.

Once she made her way back into the apartment, Charlie glanced down at the legal pad, tightly gripped in her hand.

“Fuck… shit… fuck!” she moaned and cursed, flinging the legal pad across the room before heading the bathroom to clean herself up. Perhaps skirts were a better idea than jeans.

[heatherdemetrios-blog]

The Space Between Breaths: Transitions in the Artistic Life

For the past year, I’ve been going through a transition, floating in a space between. It’s been three years since my first book came out. There was the before publication life, when I’d yet to sell a book and was dreaming hard. Then there was the after, where I struggled to learn the ropes of being a published author, yet still managed to write and sell one to two books a year, hustling like a mother. During that time there were aborted projects and disappointments, but I focused laser-like attention on my work and career, with little time for much else. Sometimes that paid off, and sometimes it didn’t. One thing it resulted in was a near-breakdown, spiritual and creative depletion, and an increasing existential dread that followed me around to the point where I felt like Edward Snowden, always looking over my shoulder. 

This was unsustainable. A life of waiting for the other shoe to drop is not a good life. And a writer who doesn’t write, or who writes but finds no joy in it, does not a happy writer make.  It also, incidentally, makes it hard to sell more books. The nervy you feel about a project somehow winds itself through the text, an X factor that makes or breaks a book. My books were breaking. I was breaking. So began my year of transition, which began in July 2016, an awakening of sorts that’s still very much in progress. This wasn’t intentional, not something I planned as a great experiment. It just sort of happened. Out of necessity and desperation and a nameless need. 

This year of transition actually started in Spring 2016, though I had no idea that this was what was happening. I started devouring books like I used to, back when I wasn’t writing three of them at a time. I literally bought and read every single JoJo Moyes book I could find (okay, I’ve saved a couple because it’s too depressing, a life without a JoJo book to look forward to), after discovering Me Before You on a Barnes and Noble table. I was working—I had revisions and copyedits and submissions. But when I sent in the last thing that was due, in mid-June, I unwittingly gave myself a for-real break. It was on accident—I didn’t realize I was taking a break until the month of July passed with me having written only a handful of words, most of them non-fiction. I got ideas, I threw ideas away—I briefly considered learning Russia and moving to Moscow. The bulk of my writing was for a residency application I never sent in, as well as the occasional blog post or lengthy email. I began meditating, reconnected with my spiritual side, read lots of books, treated myself to copies of Vogue, discovered the delights of the French 75 cocktail, and took a poetry class. I basked in sunshine and visited with friends and family. There were still stressful writerly moments: two rewrites gone bad, dismal royalty statements. But for the first time in years, writing was not the most important thing. The most important thing was me. It was as though my soul had given me one of those piercing looks and said, My dear, you are the canvas. 

Eureka. 

I followed my curiosity, each urge a trail of will-o’-the-wisps that led me deeper into my inner landscape, with its turbulent sea, floating glaciers, and craggy mountains set against endless dunes (yes, somehow my innards resemble Morocco, Ireland, and Iceland). In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert says: I believe that curiosity is the secret. Curiosity is the truth and the way of creative living. She’s absolutely right. I found such joy poking around in New Age stores and going down the Wiki hole of Romanov research and planning a trip to Prague. I delighted in the plethora of self-help books I kept hearing about, got into essential oils, and finally took a Pilates class. I bought strange rings and drank beer and even started liking kale. I got a Reiki treatment and bought my first deck of Tarot cards and I campaigned for Hillary Clinton. I bought a Nasty Woman shirt and protested with thousands of women all over the world, reigniting that little Marxist-Anarchist activist that has been hiding inside me since the Bush years. I made a few big life decisions, some quite seismic, some still in progress. I grieved, felt confusion, wonder, awe, gratitude, love, solidarity, despair. I probably drank more wine after November 8th than in the rest of my life combined. I cooked my first steak. I began living according to these wise words from Elsie De Wolfe: I am going to make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life. Fresh flowers scattered about the house. Crystals lined up on windowsills. A skirt with red roses splashed across the fabric. I see the changes that all this adventuring has wrought everywhere: in my home, my body, my mind, my spirit. And yet, the writing will not budge. 

I am still trekking up a damnably high mountain, hoping to reach a summit and praying there’s a nice little valley on the other side of it, with cool spring water and long, fragrant grass I can lie in when I look at the stars. Alas, creativity is uncharted territory—ever ineffable, a tricksy landscape complete with quicksand, dark forests, and, well, you get the metaphor. I confess, there have been a few occasions in which I actually uttered the phrase, Why am I doing this? Or I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I’m not sure if I meant it or not. I suspect maybe I did. It sounds ever so wonderful to leave work at work, to have boundaries between oneself and what one does for a living, to not be in constant artistic torture. 

The election and its aftermath was a huge blow that I’m still recovering from. I don’t think I realized how much it affected my ability to be creative until quite recently, when I realized I have to rewrite a bogart of a book I’m working on for the third time. I cannot overstate how unlike me this is. I’ve never spent two years after selling a book trying to rewrite it. It’s madness. Maddening. But when I began to connect the dots, I could see that the bulk of the problem began in the beginning of 2016—a coincidence? I think not. As I said in an email to the book’s editor: I’m sorry for being the world’s shittiest writer. I blame Trump. 

I blamed my mental health and my infernal inability to understand how time works. I blamed New York City for being so goddamn expensive and loud and distracting and fabulous. I also blamed myself, for not taking my own good advice that I give to my clients and that I myself know works. I only give advice when I’ve learned something (usually the hard way), when I know that something is tried and true. As a creativity coach, I tell my clients that each book is a different beast, and that’s true. And also that writing is a marathon (not a race), that you will never be a master, that you will always be learning, and that you should trust the process: the not knowing, the frustration—these are just hazards of the job and an essential part of the process. But each time I find myself uncertain creatively, these lessons are hard to remember. A girl has to eat, you know. 

One thing my meditation teachers like to talk about is the space between breaths. In mindfulness meditation, you focus on the inhale and exhale, using it to anchor your mind in the present. Between each round of inhalation and exhalation, there is a pocket of pure being, where your body has a moment to bask in its existence, where nothing is required of it. It can’t last very long because your lungs need air, but for just a sliver of time, you are infinite. Free-floating. This is also a space for transition, much shorter than my year of transition, but equally powerful. You can discover things there, though it may take you years, or even a lifetime to figure out. You might even see what you’re made of. 

This is an essential part of the meditation process. These pockets of no-breath are not simply a bridge between breaths, links on the path to nirvana. They are teaching moments, rich in the kind of knowledge that lives deep in your bones. It’s the same with the transitions in an artist’s life. The space between projects, between ideas, between inspiration and creative wastelands—this is, paradoxically, where the good stuff lives. Transitions are opportunities to grow, to heal, and to change. They give you space (whether you want it to not) to reassess your work, your craft, your goals. These sometimes involve dark nights of the soul, real reckonings that bring who you are and why you do what you do into sharp focus. Sometimes you won’t like what you see. Transitions, from an artistic point of view, are absolutely necessary. Think about the period when Bowie fled to Berlin, intent on getting clean and reconnecting to his art. He called his cocaine years in Los Angeles, where he embodied the Thin White Duke persona, “the darkest days of my life.” Despite being a rock star, he was going broke and Berlin, at the time, was a cheap place to live while he was in recovery. In Europe, he began visiting galleries, working on self-care through literature and classical music education, and, of course, kicking his cocaine habit and exploring Berlin’s music scene. His roommate was Iggy Pop, and I like to imagine them sitting around late at night, trading notes and blowing each other’s minds. What resulted was the Berlin trilogy, a rich artistic period and a turning point in his life. 

Of course, not all transitions need to be so dramatic, and I’m still trying to figure out what this one means for me. When I look back, what will I call this year (or, God forbid, years)? Will I look on it fondly, or shudder, grateful that it’s over? I can’t imagine not being thankful for it. Already, I’m seeing my interests in what I want to write expand in unexpected ways. Adult fiction, young adult nonfiction, historical. I’m not quite sure where I’ll land. I’m getting ideas, but am wary of investing too much in anything. I think I’m still getting my sea legs. Meditation, exercise, and healthy eating habits are helping. As is travel and working with my clients, who inspire me every day. I’m taking lots of notes because I suspect that as much as I’m learning right now about what it means to be an artist in transition, I suspect there’s even more to glean from this time later, when I can see how all the dots connected. 

Being a creative doesn’t suit our modern world, not if you’re an Artist with a capital A. Because art needs quiet, time, space, privacy. All things that are hard to come by these days, especially in Brooklyn. I stopped using my private Facebook account, rarely leave the apartment, and turn a deaf ear to industry chatter. It’s been a long time since I finished a project. Everything I’m working on is in a different stage and often ends up being cast aside or totally reworked. So of course the age old question of how to make a living as an artist rears its ugly head. If you aren’t producing, you aren’t getting paid. So while artistic explorations sound great on paper, in reality, it’s the paper itself you start worrying about. 

It’s becoming increasingly hard for artists to make a living—just take a look at Trump’s budget proposal, with threatens to cut the NEA out of existence. It’s especially difficult for writers because of the plethora of content out there. Jesus, how many blogs and websites and articles can exist? With newspapers and magazines folding left and right, writers are forced to make some pretty tough choices. These concerns are ever present, and they will be for the foreseeable future. Of course, being an artist has always involved financial acrobatics. Chekhov paid the bills through a medical practice, and Tolstoy had to self-publish War and Peace. I’m in good company. I’ve very much begun to appreciate Elizabeth Gilbert’s words in Big Magic about how your job as an artist is to take care of your creativity, not the other way around. It’s been interesting, cobbling together an income that all leads back to writing, but isn’t necessarily writing. Teaching and coaching and editing allows me to talk about what I love—writing, the artistic process, and creative living—and to help my fellow writers on their own journeys. It also gives me the chance to take care of my writing, rather than requiring it to pay all the bills. I’m already seeing the seeds I’m planting blossoming. For the first time in a long time, I’m allowing myself to consider alternative ways of living and alternative approaches to my writing. Maybe I don’t publish a book every year. Maybe I don’t only write in YA. Maybe I play a whole lot more in my creative process. Maybe I take time to take care of myself. 

The journey continues, endless and exciting and horrible and wonderful, an adventure I’m honored to have. I take a breath, exhale, and rest in the transition, looking forward to whatever comes next.