Hey Darling Ones,

Do you remember way back in 2017 when all we had to rage about was this country’s slow descent into fascism? Back when we thought it was gonna be bad after the Fascist Turnip was elected but really we had no fucking clue?

I do!

At some point in that first year of Turnip’s reign The Black Sheep, my writing group, met. I don’t know the exact context of the conversation but I do know I was raging and whining about raging and struggling with writing because I was spending all my time raging. My so wise and brilliant friend Kelly said, “You have to turn your rage into art.”

This resonated with me right to my marrow. So much so that I made it my phone’s lock screen and every day for the last three or so years I see that phrase about 8274 times. Before that it was an adorable aqua & red thing with penguins and hearts that said “Be bold. Concentrate.”

Did I listen to her? Of course not. I never listen to anybody. Should I have? Yes, and not just because since then she’s won a Newbery and published more books. Kelly is smart and wise and generous and I should always listen to her. We all should.

To be fair to myself, I have turned a lot of rage into art the past ten months or so. I frequently act like writing for I Will Dare is a none thing, and I have to remind myself that it is. It is a thing I choose to create on a nearly daily basis. When it comes to this website and the craft behind it I keep going back to an excellent quote by Terese Marie Mailhot, “someone might call my work raw and disregard the craft of making something appear raw.”

The entire point of this long preamble is to say my #1 overarching goal for 2021 is to turn my rage into art. My plan to do this is to re-write The Beast because the fifth time is the charm, but mostly because the story won’t let me go and I had a bunch of good ideas on how to make it better.

The Beast, if you don’t know, is a Rock & Roll novel I wrote in 2013, and then revised for the next three years. There was a smattering of agent interest but no real takers and then I put it away for a long, long time. Instead of writing, I made a lot of blankets, read 100s of books, fell in (and out of) love, and survived the hellscape that was 2019-2020. And that’s saying a lot considering my dad nearly died all the time at the end of 2016 and beginning of 2017. Fuck man, my life has been a tragic mess since the Turnip was elected. He really did unleash some bad vibes on the world, didn’t he?

My revision of The Beast begins in earnest tomorrow because I do not like to make sudden moves and also I enjoy productive procrastination. Today I had to print it,* continue fixing the playlists, and read some of the various notes I left myself in many stupidly named text files.

All the procrastination is done, now I have to do the work. And the work is terrifying. I’m afraid I’m going to mess it up, this book nobody wants to publish. I’m afraid I’m gonna get lost in my own imagination and become untethered from earth because I spend so little time with actual people and so much time with imaginary people. I’m afraid I’ll finish it and nobody will want to read it. However, I will not let the fear stop me. I will be bold and concentrate. I will turn my rage and sorrow and loneliness and desire and longing into art.

My other goals intentions for the year, which I wrote down because I think that’s how you manifest shit are:

• Be better to myself physically, emotionally, and mentally.
• Have sex with a man. I had one in particular in mind when I made the list but I’m 98% sure I messed that up already by being too Jodi. I would like to point out that I did not apologize for it. Thankfully, he isn’t the only man on earth.
• Create something new and cool with my friend EM.
• Buy more plants so I can have a Sadness Garden in my bedroom. My heart is so horny**for a bedroom tree it’s almost ridiculous.
• Stop buying so much stuff, specifically adorable plastic garbage. Obviously this does not include plants and/or records because, who am I kidding?

That’s it. I try not to set too many intentions because Sister #2 says the more you make the more likely you are to fail and then lose all hope. She’s smart and probably the person I listen to the most (which is still not very much).

Being bold,
Jodi
 
*My revision process involves printing the entire manuscript (300 pages) and retyping it, revising as I go. For some reason having all the words already makes it harder for me to make cuts/changes.
 
**I’ve been thinking a lot about my love/hate relationship with the word horny. I’m kinda convinced it was a word made up by the screenwriters of Porky’s. And saying, “I’m horny” is the absolute unsexiest thing ever. However, saying your X is horny for Y cracks me up all the time. I blame the TV show “The Good Place.”

P.S. The picture in the header popped up in my timehop yesterday. It’s from the year where I copied my friend Elisa and wrote down all the good things that happened when they happened and tossed them in a mason jar to read on January 1st. I did not keep up that habit. I’m kinda doing it this year in my planner. We’ll see how it goes. It was so nice to see those words from Vodo, my friend and former writing teacher, especially because Vodo was hard on my writing when he was my teacher.

The post The COVID Diaries: Turn Your Rage Into Art appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hello Darling Ones,

Last night, kind of spur of the moment, the Black Sheep (my writing group) had a little zoom call to catch up on what’s-a-goin’-on in these unprecedented times. It’s been months since we last caught up with each other. I’m not kidding you when I say seeing all their faces made me want to cry with happiness. Aside from BFK, who after 20+ years and who talks to my mom more than I do, is like family, I have no seen a non-family person since I don’t know, maybe April? May? Does time mean anything anymore?

If you don’t follow me on Twitter (why don’t you follow me on twitter? I’m a goddamn delight!) Here’s the notes from the meeting.

My Writing Group: I’m finishing a draft of a novel! I’ve just finished writing a chapter book! I write and draw every day! My picture book is coming out next year!
Me: I lay on the couch staring up at a dirty ceiling fan for hours & then I watch TikTok.

— Jodi Chromey (@jodiwilldare) October 7, 2020

They are amazing, creative, kind, supportive, encouraging people, and I’m the trash goblin they occasionally let hang out with them.

Darling Ones, today I did not stare at that dirty ceiling fan for hours. I DID NOT!

I only stared at it for about 45 minutes, because I did not manage to make it out of bed and downstairs until nearly 10 a.m. (for the first time in ages I fell asleep after the 4:45 a.m. bathroom break and the 7:45-8:15 lawn mowing where I wish murder upon the people mowing and blowing and doing stuff that is way too loud for that time in the morning).

Anyway, the sight of the dirty, dripping with dust caterpillars ceiling fan was driving me bananas. So many bananas that I put down the TikTok (I’ve fallen into tattooed, bearded, dad-bods who love fatties thirst trap TikTok, so you know this wasn’t easy), went into the garage, hauled the super crusty and annoying apparatus I need to clean the 20-foot high ceiling fan, and I cleaned it.

It sucked. A bunch. Because of gravity those stupid dust caterpillars have nowhere to go but down and so by the time I have dusted the ceiling fan it looks like a light grey blizzard has hit my living room. So then you have to vacuum and dust and do all that other kind of housekeeping bullshit I really hate doing.

But I did it. And now when I tell people that I lay on the couch watching the ceiling fan it feels 38% less depressing. Right?

I knew you’d agree with me.

Jodi

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Wampach’s is a little diner in downtown Shakopee that’s been here since the 50s. It’s very similar to my parents’ little diner 10 miles down the road near downtown Savage.

I have very distinct memories of having breakfast at Wampach’s with my Grandpa and Grammu when I was a kid. One time we had breakfast, and afterward my Aunt Cathy got to buy a pair of red-swooshed Nike’s at Valley Sports and my Grandpa said we had to walk home since he’d paid a ridiculous sum of money for those shoes.

My parents eat at there quite a bit. This always puzzles me, because it’s exactly like their restaurant, but ten miles away. And after working all day at a very similar restaurant, wouldn’t you be sick of it? But my sister theorizes that it’s more than just a place to eat dinner for them, it’s where they socialize, which makes sense. If you ever want to meet a sizable portion of my family, you only need go to Wampach’s on a Saturday at 6:30. Aunts, Uncles, parents, occasionally a nephew or a sister. They’re all there.

I don’t join them that often, because I’m an Angry Hermit and it can be a lot.

However, they had a rare Thursday outing this week and I did join them for dinner as the sun set.

I’ve had a rough few weeks in a row. Wednesday was especially tough. I spent three hours on FaceTime with a barely consolable Sister #2 who is also having a rough few weeks. I didn’t eat lunch or breakfast because I was talking to my sister and when I hung up from her I found the email that said for the third year in a row the MN State Arts Board found my writing unworthy of funding, however two member of my Black Sheep writing group were worthy. And thus I spent the rest of the day being weepy and sad.

As you know, I haven’t written a single fucking thing since August. Nothing. I’ve barely found the mental and emotional space to type words here. So I’m already feeling like a total fraud. And I haven’t heard bupkis from the potential agent since I sent my manuscript back in August. And then the Arts’ Board rejection. It was bad. I spent part of the night whining to the Black Sheep, which is something I should have done a month ago because it made me feel so much better.

And then Thursday, my mom asked me if I wanted to go to Wampach’s for dinner with my dad and Uncle Danny. My dad was going to dinner. I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

I hadn’t seen my dad since October 16th, before his surgery. And there was a weekend where I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to see him again. However, he’s a tough old bastard and he’s been discharged to a local nursing home to do some rehab on his right side, weakness caused by the stroke.

But there he was sitting at a table in Wampach’s on Thursday night and I can’t remember the last time I was so happy to see someone. And then I got to eat a turkey club and whine to my parents about not getting the stupid arts grant which of course they think is total bullshit because I’m the best writer they know, which is funny because the last think they’ve read of mine was probably “Banishment to Banished Mountain Where the Banishing Happens”, a story I wrote in fourth grade after I learned the word “banish.”

This is a long way to say, I got to see my dad and I feel much better now. Like a burden lifted from my shoulders. Also, the club sandwiches at Wampach’s are aces. And they have tator tots. My mom was appalled that I had French fries with my sandwich and not tator tots. My love of tator tots is well-known throughout the land. I’m pretty proud of that.

The post When the Dam Bursts appeared first on I Will Dare.

First of all as I begin typing this at 1:43 p.m. you should know that it smells like pepperoni in my house. I don’t know why. I haven’t eaten pepperoni in weeks. Also, there is a gravy stain on my shirt. I haven’t eaten gravy (yet) today, however I did manage to coat myself in gravy last night at Family Dinner.

You are free to insert my all-time favorite burn right here. It comes from my cousin Christopher who was making fun of another cousin who will not be named. He said, “Nice shirt. I liked it yesterday too.” My sisters and I use this on each other all the time and have for more than 20 years.

So today started rather dramatically. I cried three times before 10 a.m., which was no easy feat considering I didn’t even get out of bed until 7:54 a.m. This is quite spectacular even for a cry baby like me.

The first time I cried was when I read Albert Einstein’s letter to Marie Curie.

Then I cried when Kurtis said nice things about The Beast. If you are new to this joint The Beast is a novel I’ve been working on for the past two years, which I recently handed off to my writing group called The Black Sheep (Kurtis is a sheep). I’ve been living in constant anxiety about handing The Beast over sure that they will think it is the stupidest thing to ever take up space on a harddrive and I should sit down, shut up, and go back to writing crappy newsletters full time.

And I keep telling myself it’s okay if they think it is the worst thing ever because it made Christa cry and that can be enough.

The third time I cried was because Karlyn (another Black Sheep) kindly offered to come way out to the suburbs and drag me to Grumpys if it snows on Wednesday when we meet to eat tator tots and talk about The Beast and the latest magic Kelly has created.

There has been a lot of talk of crying thus far. I blame the fact that I watched “The Body” episode of Buffy last night and really got the tear ducts going.

So after all the snot, I chatted with Sister #2 about my dad getting my mom a new iPad for Christmas and how they were wigging me out because both he and Sister #3 kept saying how mom really emphasized the fact that she wanted an iPad with WiFi.

Then we spent 45 minutes chatting about Serial and at one point I had to say, “Everything I know about the law comes from “Legally Blonde,” “Days of Our Lives,” and “Law & Order.” Clearly, I am ready to take my spot in the Supreme Court.

After lunch and some work I took an unintended 1.5 hour nap. I’ve been napping a lot lately because Paco has become a total asshole. He’s taken to caterwauling every night (morning, I guess) at three. He does it enough to wake me up until I say “knock it off, Paco.” Then he stops and leaves me alone until about 7 a.m. when he decides it is time for me to wake up and feed him. That was a lot of information about my cat.

The nap was good in the way that unintended naps can be, but it was plagued by anxiety dreams about unmarked burritos in my freezer. There were a lot of unmarked burritos in my freezer.

I spent most of the evening feverishly working on Maxwell’s Christmas blanket (pictured above). I vowed to not ruin Christmas this year by waiting until the last minute to make all my gifts. You might think I would have vowed to just buy gifts, but I’m pretty sure none of the niblings want to be part owner of the ridiculous refrigerator I bought in June which is where all my money goes. So thus, handmade gifts.

I’m nearly done with Maxwell’s blanket. I finished Jaycie’s a few weeks ago. That means I need only make one more horn for Cade’s viking hat and then dream up something for Liam. If I have time I will make all the Tibbles stuffed animals too. I’m fucking Super Aunt and don’t you forget it.

There were some leftover porkchops for dinner. I was going to take a picture of the slimy pile of mushrooms I picked out of the my mom’s cream of mushroom & brown packet of stuff gravy, but there was no way to not make it look like a tiny, pile of shit on a plate. So I deleted it. You’re welcome.

The “It’s (Insert Day of Week) and I’m Boring” is a series that Christa and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging. (I totally copied this nice explanation from Christa).

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I am riddled with plague. It was bound to happen after loving up on so many people at Midway, plus three hours of sleep, plus the stress and late nights of a new site launch, and add to all that the the emotional upheaval due to Sister #2’s departure to Portland. It’s a wonder I’m still up & breathing and not an oozing mass of ick on the floor.

The real bummer, however, is that I missed the release party for my friend Kelly Barnhill’s wonderful new book The Witch’s Boy. This is a bummer on many levels. One, I would have liked to be there to celebrate this, her third book. A book the Black Sheep had the honor of watching her create (and recreate and create again, thus is Kelly’s process). Two, Kelly is a magical reader and I like to listen to her whenever the opportunity arises.

Earlier this summer the Black Sheep gathered at Kelly’s house to talk about our writing. We were in her backyard that overlooks Minnehaha Creek, a few yards over her son and his merry band of neighborhood kids were having adventures.

The breeze smelled like lilacs as Kurtis handed out orange creamsicles and we sat rapt while Kelly told us a fairytale that was the backstory to another story she had written. That night and her story about the woman who turned herself into a bird to protect her son is one of my favorite memories of this summer.

Kelly is an enchanting storyteller both on paper and in person.

So, can you see why there was so much bumming about missing the party? But lucky for me (and for you), some very kind soul recorded her reading last night and put it on YouTube.

The post Did You Miss The Witch’s Boy Party? So Did I, but All is Not Lost appeared first on I Will Dare.