Before my last blog post, I hadn’t written a single word for pleasure in 15 years. Every scribble in my journal processed some lingering hurt, and every other word was dragged out in service of the almighty dollar.
Ten years ago, I burned out. Hard. At the time, I was a full-time freelance writer and breadwinner for a household that included two medical special needs dogs. When the 112 articles and 120 hours of tutoring that year didn’t cover the bills or a client paid late, I picked up bartending shifts at catering events.
But even in the first five years of my paid career, writing was never a transcendent joy. It was a hustle, my hustle, and the thrill of achieving a new byline was always overshadowed by the yawning need to pitch more, network more, write more. By unexpected vet bills and family emergencies and routine holidays. Over time, even landing an article in one of my bucket list publications became something to remark upon, but not celebrate. To be honest, I don’t even remember if I celebrated finishing my first book.
Instead, I started idealizing,—and idolizing—the grind. Working 60-80 hour weeks to get by became a badge of pride, and then the expectation. Any dinners or drinks with friends were double purposed for market research or finding trends I could pitch. During every trip out of state, I picked up at least one bottle of liquor or liqueur that I couldn’t get at home. It never stopped.
In 2016, the inspiration for new article topics ran out, along with any compulsion to create cocktails from scratch. Later that year, I wrote my first cocktail book. Writing a relatively straightforward work based on someone else’s outline is easy. Being a one-woman idea generator, accounts payable department, and creative lead is not.
Then I got divorced. During that process, I took on writing Romantic Cocktails to challenge myself both to write in a new-to-me style and to focus on a part of love that was not loss. It forced me out of my friends’ guest rooms and into the world. But, the night I finished that book, I fell asleep (fully sober) holding a plastic bin of animal crackers.
For the five years after that, I didn’t write much for print. I moved across state lines, I bartended, went to grad school, and switched fields. At the end of 2023, my publisher and I started talks around Spooky Cocktails. I was hopeful that the burnout had faded some, and so, with Stephen’s blessing, I did it. Eight months later, two nights before we left on our month-long honeymoon to Spain, I had written and edited a full draft.
That night, despite gloomy weather and having work the next day, Stephen took me out for drinks to celebrate. My inclination was to make a nice cup of tea and sleep on it, but he was insistent that we get out of the house to mark the occasion. Over a Painkiller, I just kept repeating “My third book is DONE!” Previous accomplishments had felt like reading mile markers; a way to note progress, but nowhere near the destination. Doing something to acknowledge the size of the project made it feel more real.
Now that I/we have started celebrating things, I keep finding things to celebrate. We’ve opened the good champagne and the really special tequila. We’ve made new traditions, like celebrating a first day of work with ice cream and getting the pups cheeseburgers (cheeburgers) once a month. Hard things are still happening, but finding and celebrating the joys of any size has added a richness that I hadn’t dreamed was possible.
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