V. H. King's Ink

For the past decade, September has been a month of settling in. After the hectic rush of starting a new school year in August, I often found my rhythm the following month. It’s true that I’ve spent the majority of the Septembers in my lifetime doodling and writing stories—the appearance of taking detailed notes can go a long way.

Although my writing tends to lull in the summer, I don’t think of it as a bad thing. A dear friend of mine pointed out that I can’t expect myself to bear fruit year-round, so to speak; even the trees need their sleep. That has stuck with me throughout the years, and I’ve come to view the months of May through August as my scheduled break from relentless scribbling. Besides, my work and school and committee schedules kept me plenty engaged and exhausted, so I was never bored.

Poems like to pester me until I get them out on paper, and I occasionally find my way to scribbling a bit of a scene, but most of my summer creativity leans toward art. The other half of the year—from October to April, that is—becomes the season for stories upon stories upon stories. While I’ve noticed these patterns over the years, there was another truth I was ignoring. I say that I write and make art because I have to. That is very much true. For years, I thought it was my best coping mechanism to survive. And that’s where I didn’t have the whole picture.

I’m very good at assuming I will be disappointed, let down, or rejected. The road to publication is fraught with harsh opinions and narrow standards. The so-called literary canon has no room for people like me, so why would I ever dream of my art or writing as a sustainable career path? Even now, as writers strike and many others in media-making voice their solidarity, there is gross inequity across all contexts and sectors of storytelling.

Very few of my life experiences have taught me what to do with joy. How do you deal with happy endings? What is it like to have dreams become not only a reality, but a momentous force that pushes you to grow and connect with people in ways you never imagined possible? I don’t think I have the answers, but I think I’m willing to find out.

In a recent letter to my friend (because yes, I still write those!), I remarked how the dust feels like it’s finally settling. On September 28th last year, I found out I had a brain tumor. 360-odd days later, I’ve had brain surgery, lost my job, and moved in with my parents. It’s not where I thought I’d be, approaching the home stretch to my 30th birthday. It’s also not as bleak as it sounds—because September is all about transition and settling in, remember? Of course, that begs the question:

How do you settle in to the unknown? Can peace and uncertainty coexist?

I’m inclined to think yes.

Aside from a cyclical experience of time and a constant awareness of the infinite iterations of life—or maybe because of those realities—I’m a sucker for tactile mementos. Object (and subject) permanence is not my strong-suit; it helps my brain to connect ideas to physical objects. As cognitive burnout has worsened over the years, I’ve struggled with all sorts of processing and recall issues. Surgery didn’t exactly help with that. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Most days, I can’t imagine the way I used to. I do a fair bit of staring out the window, trying to convince myself I haven’t lost the only thing that made my life worth living. My hope obliterated, my soul stripped of its steadfast comfort, and isolation imposing a barren eternity stretching too far and wide for me to escape on my own. A nightmare I didn’t know was possible. The unhappy ending I never could have prepared myself for—if this was, indeed, the end.

I still don’t know if I will ever write again.

I say that because writing is a word that I used for surviving. Writing was gritting my teeth and hoping beyond all hope that there was more for me than exceeding expectations I had no business meeting in the first place, all while hating myself for lacking the courage to fully trust the truths hidden inside of me. In many ways, this last decade has been e grueling grindstone. Now I am left raw and tender on the shore of waters that could either save or suck the life out of me.

When I graduated high school, my mom bought me a charm necklace. (The traditional gift was a fancy watch, but this little mind of mine can’t make sense of numbers because they’re too abstract for me.) At the jewelry store, Mom patiently waited as I closely examined each and every option. Did I want the panda bear? Or what about the turtle? But the butterfly! Stars, dolphins, flowers—these were objects, yes, and to me they were also symbols. Looking at all those charms was a lot like telling Shakespeare he could only write three plays. I’m not Shakespeare, of course, so I managed to do it.

A cross in an ichthus.
A heart that curved and opened into another heart.
And a wing with a few tiny sparkles inside.

I chose these, telling myself—and others, when asked—that the charms stood for faith, love, and hope. Recently, I’ve had the pleasure of acquiring a few more charms. These weren’t bought at a special occasion (but still chain) jewelry store. I bought three bracelets in a shop I’d been to five years before. I bought two necklaces after thinking it over for twice as many days. And almost a week after I got home, I managed to cobble together my new totems after some trial and error.

This is the part where I guess I should tell you what they are. But there’s something else I want you to know. The past six months, I have grieved the loss of my imagination. But that interior worldscape of infinite possibilities? It’s not gone. It’s happening. I know now that there is room for my art and stories in the world. They don’t need to be broadcast on primetime TV or red-carpet premiered on the silver screened. I didn’t quite want them to be in the first place, but that’s not the point.

My stories are happening with every breath I take.

As I live and breathe, I carry the possibilities of all my ancestors with me. By the very opportunity to paint in my room by the afternoon light, I am fulfilling the dreams of those who came before me. The semi-weekly voice chats with friends who read my work (and then affectionately gripe about my often unintentional cliffhangers) are the very connection that I have desired. Thoughts spilling their way into experience resonating deeply across time zones, state lines, international borders, cultural trenches, and everything else?

If I had to dream what my future looked like, it would have many of the same elements that I do now. The care and support of my family. The resources to tell stories, make art, and keep growing as I do so. A community of trusted others who pour into and have space for each other. May I never write again from that wretchedly suffocating place where I don’t believe my work matters.