The Undercover Introvert

How to Turn that Hobby into a Job

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I’ve been a writer since I was in middle school, and I can’t remember a time when I haven’t looked at a shelf full of books and imagined my own future novels sitting there. In between those halcyon days and now, my life unwound in ways I never imagined as a middle schooler–a child of my own, college, marriage, divorce, iterations of ‘real’ jobs that kept money rolling in but weren’t especially fulfilling. All the while, I kept writing, still dreaming of that day when I’d find my own books for sale. But it took actually getting let go from one of those ‘real’ jobs to force me into finally deciding to try my hand at writing for a living.

Once you become an adult, it’s difficult to justify spending time on something that doesn’t pay the bills, take care of your kid, or clean your house. And folks are quick to storm all over your parade when you tell them you want to pursue something artsy. Oh, you write? How nice. My 7 year old likes writing too.

But there are some people who aren’t as judgmental and awful. Upon hearing that I’m a successful freelancer, they want to know how I managed to escape the hellish trap of working in a job you dislike so you can afford a life that’s not quite going the way you planned. I became a freelancer officially after losing my job last April, but I learned the focus and discipline necessary to write all day long many years before that. And for those of you who are wishing and hoping and thinking and praying and planning and dreaming to transform your own love of writing into a job that actually pays the bills, I have some suggestions to get you started.

Treat writing like the job you want it to be

I used to write in between managing the rest of my life–raising my kiddo, doing laundry, working a job, etc., etc.. But once my kiddo was in school and I had a supportive (now ex) husband who agreed I could give this writing thing a go and see where it led me, I realized the only way I was going to be able to get any consistent work done was by actually treating writing like a job, not a hobby that I fit in if I found myself with an abundance of free time. Once I shifted the way I thought about it–even though I wasn’t yet making any money–I had instant results. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that envisioning shit doesn’t help you actualize it, because it totally does.

Plant your ass in a seat

This is critical. The best way to treat this writing thing like a job is to sit your happy ass in a chair for sprawling hours at a time and force your fingers onto the keyboard. No matter what happens, power the hell through. Doing this helped me set up my own individual groove…and the words flooded in by the thousands every day. Thanks to this process, I found that writer’s block isn’t really a thing. It’s really just a prettied up way of saying ‘plain old loss of focus’. And do you know what the cure is? Keeping that ass in that seat.

Don’t focus so much on quality of the words you write (that’s what editing’s for, silly). Focus on quantity, because without quantity, you can’t get to quality. If you have to put a knife to your throat in order to force yourself through the harder scenes, do it. Every time I do this, I’m sure what I’ve written is complete shit, but then I go back to read it and am pleasantly surprised if not outright pleased as punch. But you’ll never get there if you keep removing that ass from that seat. I’ve had days where I knocked out well over fifteen thousand words. Just don’t overthink it. Give your inner editor/critic a swift kick in the balls and keep writing so furiously, you don’t have time to contemplate the how and why. In this way, I went from writing a novel a year to writing three to five a year (and now that I freelance, I can do an 80k novel a month, no joke, and that includes editing).

Make like Virginia Woolf and get a room of your own

For years, I wrote on my living room couch, sometimes while the TV was on. It sounds incredibly stupid now, but that’s how it was. When I first started treating this writing thing seriously, I made myself go to my local library from the time it opened until I needed to pick up my daughter from school in the mid afternoon. This got me used to sitting at a desk and writing for hours at a time. I couldn’t wander to the kitchen or decide my baseboards needed a good scrubbing at the library. It also helped that I didn’t yet have a Twitter account and only had like 50 friends on Facebook. After a few months of that, I trusted myself enough to try working at home, but not on the couch this time. With the help of my (now ex) husband, I converted one of our guest bedrooms into an office. Every morning I got up at 5, went running, took my daughter to school, and then came home to write until it was time to pick her up again. Having my own space that was only for writing changed everything.

Soldier through, no matter what

I have submitted eight novels to agents and dozens of short stories to literary magazines. I’ve managed to land an agent and work with her for two years through several edits of my novel only to have her tell me that she was quitting the business ASAP, without selling my novel first (that was a blow that took some time from which to recover). I have weathered more rejection than you can imagine. It’s a bummer and I hate it, but it has never made me question my desire to write. I know I can string words together so they jump off of the page. I just need to get the right piece of work into the right person’s hands, and that hasn’t happened yet. So, no matter what, keep writing. Even if you’re working a job you hate. Even if you believe what you’re creating is total shit. I guarantee you, it isn’t. Writing is a process. The more you do it, the better you get. Stopping won’t get you where you want to be. Do. Not. Quit.

There are writers who are much more successful than I am, but there are also writers who are stuck where I used to be: dreaming about turning this burning desire into a job that pays real money. I’ve done that (this would be a marvel to the Tess of several years ago). I still have more work to do to get to the point where I’m seeing my own original work on the shelf, but I’ll take this. For now. But, believe me, the hustle never ends.

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A Single Woman’s Guide to Dating in Trump’s America

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The morning after Election Day 2016, it felt like I woke up in a completely unrecognizable country surrounded by people who weren’t just on the other side politically but were actively against people who looked like me: black and female. These folks voted for a man who stirred an already simmering pot with his racist rhetoric, causing it to boil over, and bragged about using his money and fame to forcibly kiss women and grab them by their genitals. He was endorsed by David Duke (and it took days for him to denounce that endorsement) and routinely talked about women’s bodies and looks. Did I mention that, besides being disappointed and scared, I was also single? The world had changed so much, seemingly overnight, and I realized that finding a date in Donald Trump’s America was going to be difficult.

In the year since then, I’ve come up with a strategy for avoiding the new dating pitfalls given our current political climate. If, like me, you’re single and not batshit fucking crazy enough to have voted for the morally bankrupt, racist, sexist candidate in the presidential election of 2016, you might be wondering how you can start putting yourself out there to find a love match.

Here’s my advice: don’t.

That sounds bleak, but think about it. What would your first question be upon meeting a new guy? Here’s mine: did you vote for Donald Trump? If the answer is yes, we’re done right then and there. That alone has probably kept me from even bothering with anything like online dating, because that’s not just a no, it’s a hell no. But meeting men in person is problematic too. Number one, I keep way too busy all of a sudden. There just isn’t enough time in the day. But, number two, even the guys I tend to meet in progressive, socially active circles are still guys. I’ve had plenty of frustrating conversations with so-called male allies, especially in light of the avalanche of #MeToo posts. Men, y’all really don’t like to hear a woman say that you need to do better. You don’t like to hear about male privilege. I’m thinking some of you don’t even like hearing a woman’s opinion at all unless it aligns with yours. As a woman, I can tell you that living in America as it is today is exhausting (to be honest, it always has been, but this year cranked up the intensity to nearly insupportable levels). It’s hard to enjoy yourself with a guy when you’re busy giving nonstop lessons on feminism and race relations. At this point in my life, I’m not interested in push back on basic issues. If my vagina or brown skin keeps you from treating me like an equal, I don’t want to waste one or two dates to find that out. I’d rather we just not go out at all.

At this point, you might be asking: don’t you miss being in a relationship? Well, sometimes. But, like I said, I keep pretty busy. And, also, I’ve heard more racist and sexist shit in the last year than I’ve heard in the last fifteen years. I’m frustrated, I’m tired of the bullshit, and I’m not about to compromise on a single issue that’s important to me. I’ve talked to guys who don’t think systemic racism exists, who don’t think misogyny played a major part in the 2016 election, who don’t think that they contribute to rape culture in any way, who think that a woman speaking about sexism is divisive. These same men are quick to chastise a woman who speaks out, warning her that she’s chasing away ‘good men’ who might be her allies if she would just STFU about the inequality she faces based on her gender and/or color.

But I have no plan to STFU.

Here’s what I know about myself: I’d rather occasionally be bummed about not having anyone to snuggle and watch Netflix with than to be dating someone, even casually, who just doesn’t get that the world is simply a different, less forgiving place for women and people of color. We have a limited amount of time in this world. Why waste even a moment of it on someone not worth your time and energy?

And if any guys have stuck around long enough to get to this point, I can almost hear your retort: who would want to date you anyway (insert insult here about uppity black feminist)? You’re exactly right. Because I don’t shut up and I’m too old to compromise on things that truly matter to me. But I’m also too old to care that I’m not your cup of tea. I’m too busy being my own cup of tea.

So, my guide to dating in this new political landscape is to spend your time getting as comfortable as you can in your own skin. Only then will you know the things you can afford to compromise and those you can’t. For me, there are too many items on that latter list. But that’s okay. Being single is better than going out a few times and then finding out he voted for Trump, or that he thinks women just aren’t as smart as men, or that he flies the confederate flag and believes that the Civil War wasn’t about slavery. I don’t need that noise. I’ve successfully taken my own inventory and realized I’m just fine as I am.

Does that mean I’ve closed the door to dating? Sure, but it’s unlocked…

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Found on a Doorstep

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All the best kids are adopted. This isn’t just my overly biased opinion as an adopted individual. Popular culture reinforces that assessment again and again with delightful characters such as the nice boy from the Omen, the grown woman pretending to be a murderous child in the Orphan, and Loki, god of mischief, as depicted in the Thor trilogy…

Adopted kids are a bit of a novelty, or so I’ve deduced from the oddly invasive responses I routinely get from folks when they find out how my family came to be. Maybe there’s just something inherent in the word adopted that makes grown folks lose their damned minds, because I’ve fielded some extremely personal and inappropriate questions over the years after casually mentioning that I never spent any actual time camping out in my mother’s uterus.

My personal favorite boundary crossing, none of your damned business because I don’t even know you question is: don’t you want to find your real parents?

I’m a smartass going way back, and my normal go-to when dealing with uncomfortable situations is to apply a hearty injection of acerbic humor. My response to the above question is always: oh, I know where my real parents are. They raised me.

Some folks stop right there, suddenly realizing that the funny taste at the back of their throat is from jamming a foot in their mouth. I get a nervous laugh in response and then we go back to talking about something else. Or they remember they had other stuff to do and boogie without making any further eye contact. But other folks don’t seem able to pick up on subtlety and have to keep pushing further into unwelcome territory.

You know what I mean, they say, smiling in a challenging way that lets me know they intend to get an answer that satisfies. Your real parents.

At this point, I drop the humor and go straight for the jugular. And I’ve honestly heard this exact line of questioning so often that I always say the same thing: oh, you mean the people who abandoned me and never looked back? Yeah, reconnecting with them is one of my top priorities.

Awkward…

I’ve never talked to anyone bold enough to go much further than this, but it’s interesting that people I don’t know feel entitled to that kind of personal information. I’ve discussed my disinterest in finding my biological parents with close friends, but we know one another, and that level of shared intimacy is expected. I give a little of me, and you give a little of you. Otherwise, I keep my personal story behind a locked door.

What makes folks need to probe so deeply into this subject? I blame movies, books, and television.

Hear me out.

In just about every story I’ve ever watched or read that included an adopted character, that person was either a murderous psycho (the antichrist, amirite?) or so heartsick for her ‘real’ family, that she was desperately unhappy and unable to enjoy a single thing about her life. It’s tired and predictable. Despite my rich inner turmoil and murderous fantasies (joking about that last part!), I think I present as a mostly well adjusted adult, and that just doesn’t jive with what we’ve been told about adopted kids. There’s something off about us. Who knows where we came from or what we’re thinking about. Can we really be trusted? On the other hand, a blood bond is strong, right? Surely we must be pining for our long lost biological relatives. Meeting them would fill some hole in our tortured souls that has been plaguing us for our entire lives.

I hate to break it to you, but apart from the tumultuous events that brought me to my parents’ doorstep as an infant, my life is pretty damned ordinary. No empty space in my heart only an absent biological parent can fill. No otherworldly abilities bestowed upon me by my father, god of the underworld (damn it). I’m just a kid whose biological mother did her a solid by letting her go so her real parents could find her. That’s it, and that’s all.

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Learning to Say No

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I have absolutely no skill when it comes to saying no. How is it that I never managed to acquire this ability in the last 37 years? Well, this really shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone given the name of the blog, but I’m a functioning introvert. I’ve suffered from low to moderate social anxiety for as long as I can remember. I often have to put a knife to my own throat to go out, even when I’m looking forward to something. Once I get there, I warm up, but I need to recharge afterwards. My ideal evening is spent with my nose in a book or watching something from my Netflix queue. But now I find myself busier than I’ve ever been in my life and I’m struggling.

The political climate of 2016 compelled me to act. I woke up after Election Day in a black, desolate mood. As the days passed, that despair transformed into helplessness, frustration, and finally anger. I needed a way to burn through that fury, to transform it into something meaningful. But how?

I’d never been involved in any political or social activism. So, I joined every group I could find. My typical week went from going out once or twice max to being out every single night of the work week and all day on the weekend. I was organizing, putting events together, making phone calls to strangers (which I absolutely loathe above nearly all else), speaking to crowds, canvassing for the local branch of the Democratic Party, and heading up various local initiatives. Once you become known for showing up and working hard, people tend to call on you to keep doing it, and when there’s so much that needs to be done, you find yourself volunteering and allowing people to set as much as they’d like onto your narrow shoulders. You feel accomplished, but weary. This rush of frenzied activity causes chronic overextension, which exhausts you in a way that even a string of good nights’ sleeps cannot fix.

So, what’s to be done when you want to create as much change as you can but also don’t want to perpetually feel like sinking into bed and pulling the blankets over your head until everyone forgets you exist?

Over the last 12 months, I’ve come to realize that the answer is balance. Don’t accept too many projects and leadership roles. Make a list of priority items and decide how much work you can do without driving yourself insane. Take the recharge time for yourself that you desperately need. Don’t allow anyone to make you feel guilty for saying no.

Have I mastered any of what I’ve just suggested? Oh, hell no. Not even close. But I’m learning as I go, because I’ve never done this before.

During a protest early last year, I saw a sign that read: It’s so bad even introverts are here. I had to laugh at that because it’s true. We’re uncomfortable, but we’re here. Just don’t be surprised if you see us running away from you in a parking lot or something. No offense. We’ve just reached the limit for socializing that day…

And So It Begins…

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This blog thing is brand new, so I feel the need to introduce myself. I’m a writer, reader, runner, activist, and functional introvert. I’m an Air Force brat afflicted with terminal wanderlust. I’m a divorced mother of one who loves dogs, food, and smashing the patriarchy. I’m a black woman adopted by white parents who raised a brown daughter. I’ve fallen in love in Italy, lived in Germany and Japan, learned to dive in Guam, and gone wreck diving off the coast of Hawaii. I’ve been so low I wondered if I’d ever see the sun again. I went to a hippie college on the west coast of Florida for undergrad and then started and stopped grad school in New York City. I’m a freelancer earning a living by the power of my imagination alone. I’m a community organizer fighting for racial justice and reproductive rights. I’m a feminist, rabble rouser, and proud member of the resistance. I have a degree in philosophy—get ready for the occasional cogito ergo sum—and a paralegal certificate. I’ve pressed restart on my life a few times since becoming an adult, most recently after the 2016 election cycle. Instead of curling up in the fetal position and lying still over the next 4 years, I decided to get active. That’s despite the social anxiety. If I can do it, anyone can and should.

That’s one hell of an information dump and it doesn’t even begin to cover what goes on in my head or where I’ve been in the last 37 years. I imagine that will come with time and effort. I have so much to say, and expressing myself in words has always come as easily as breathing. It’s actually my preferred method of communication. In other words, prepare for verbosity on an epic scale. Words are my jam and writing has been much more than a hobby since middle school. The world’s been on fire for a while now but, somehow, most of us are just noticing for the first time. It won’t all be doom and gloom, though. There’s hope too, and humor. What would life be without laughing, screaming, writing, worrying, and dreaming?

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