10 min read

A Day Late, a Blog Post Short: What to blame my InfoDump delay on now?

I had hoped my brain fog and lack of energy would have released me from a type A notion that I could in fact write THE perfect post to start this blog. Instead, I lamented that I did it again, like last January, when I launched FLOWLab⁵...that I made a bit off more than I could chew...
Neon sign in pink "Open 24 hours" on a street level gated window.
Photo by Alina Grubnyak via Unsplash

There's plenty of trash to cover so instead I will spend my very first post covering my ass, in long form, of course.

I've had a few rants brewing for days. Which one to publish? This is often my only creative roadblock (hitting go). I'm never short on things to write– opinions, links, or rhymes. For me, being stuck with writer's block would mean much darker times.

I wonder which topic will CMA (cover my ass) when I inevitably hit Publish very late tonight? It's getting dark. Wasn't I aiming for yesterday?

I was close to posting once or twice on Friday, and I was practically hallucinating (cough medicine, low blood sugar, low fever) so I held off, lest I came out of the gate sounding off my rocker. Too late for that, I guess? Still, the creative process cannot be rushed, and this one's all mine.

Yesterday, during a particularly trippy hour, I told my partner (when he offered me something to eat) that “it would be too much information for my face.” He cracked up; I stand by it. My body, like my brain, is dog tired from processing ALL THE THINGS it has over the past few days, weeks, years.

After a long weekend, a whirlwind with my fam being back home, my partner got Covid New Year's Day. Before that I was taking care of a puppy during an ice storm for a week. Two kids, the rain and snow, calls for the Holidays. All the lights. I have had nonstop sensory input, save the quiet, which I relished.

Then I "fell ill" like a Victorian protagonist, or maybe like “Beth” in Little Women (the first time she gets sick, of course–when she RECOVERS; Claire Danes is Beth, obvi, because Hi, Gen X). This thought, by the way had me googling Beth quotes and then looking at My So Called Life and Jared Leto. That is the glimpse of my AD brain you need, as I sit here trying to tell you that I am struggling to choose WHICH rant to begin my blog with. How perfectly meta.

The last week, as I lay here with Covid my neurodivergent brain even more muddled than usual, I became increasingly frustrated (and increasingly phlegmy). I had RSV in December, that turned into bronchitis, that made me lose my voice completely.

So, it’s only logical that my RSD would return in full force with the 'rona. Lucky me! I kept spinning out in a million directions, while still managing to beat myself up. (Oh you REST when you’re sick? That sounds neat. You probably also close your eyes and just like sleep most nights, right?)

Dark background, photo of classic belle top alarm clock, white face, analog, 2 hands clock face, numbers,
Photo by Michelen Studios Unsplash

Before you worry (like I would about you), I managed to rest; I slept a ton. And yes, I even watched TV too, though less than I would have, had I’d been born a patient human.

I read several things (a heady, longform piece I’ll share later; long text convos with other friends in the thick of things; reread parts of Mediocre).My Friday feed was FULL of dumpster fire fodder, and I allowed myself to explore a bulk of that too because it’s my (so called) life and I can spend my (unpaid) sick days how I want.

When Tylenol kicked in, I wrote. Bed-bound for an extra week, more uninterrupted time quarantined, away from my kids…what else would a writer do?!

Deadlines in absentia, pressures remain.

I had hoped my brain fog and lack of energy would have released me from this type A notion that I could in fact write The perfect post to start this blog. Instead, I lamented it was last January all over again, when I launched FLOWLab⁵ maybe a bit too soon.

Did I bite off more than I could chew? I put myself out there, again?! Why? I gave myself even more unpaid labor, more deliverables, more creative output that literally no one tracks but me.

Then I thought, Fuck! Can I even deliver on that brand promise? To really fucking go off, be entertaining, educational, funny, and worthy of you precious time?? (Mind you, while I am flattered by the interest, I still have only a few dozen subscribers. For now, the bar is freaking LOW. Even though it took an afternoon, I am not worried about throngs of critique.)

Sometime Thursday, I started berating myself to throw up 500 words and be done with it–this was the entire point of my own blog to begin with, wasn’t it? To just publish stuff, even if it is a little off, tangential, unpolished, or rage-y. But I couldn’t choose which part of the patriarchy to feature in my premier post.

Why not be early for once, I thought (and here’s where you laugh along with me if you are neurodivergent, a creative, or both). So then, of course, I tried to talk myself out of the whole thing. Go sleep! Watch "Wednesday" till Sunday.

Plus, I love putting finished work out there.

Though I struggle big time with the last 10% of creating (either not wanting to deal, or wanting it to be tight AF), I'm actually a bad quitter. I share dates publicly to hold myself accountable, on purpose, to make sure I do THE THING. Another way I CMA. 2 days is just my ushe personal grace period. 

Flipping through a completed decks, polished campaigns, tight artwork, or reading an essay of my own is so damn satisfying. That IS the dopamine hit for me...not the read count, and thank god because my medium posts get like 12 views.

When I revist work from last week, or last year, I breathe a sigh, and smile, like HELL YEAH I did that shit. Don’t you? You should! You are awesome!

Sure, creative work could always be better. Truth. My early writing sucked and I cringe but so what? I also couldn't draw for shit when I decided to be a designer, and somehow I got a BFA. I'm a believer in practice till you're decent, and eventually you may even be good. As an art teacher, many of my students are way better than I am, as it should be!

I have written applications even after a deadline has past to just admire how gorgeously I pulled it together (usually not making the due date by deliberately because I have no business or time with MORE WORK. A fellowship? Better I just work hard on 80% of the application, then let the deadline breeze by, right?)

Look I didn’t wire, this creative, independent, redundant, polymathic brain? I am just here to lay it all bare for you. That is why you subscribed, right?

I am simply an overthinker, which makes sense if practice is how I process and progress. Run it through the mixer again, keep sifting it. Eventually you'll get dough.

Simultaneously telling myself, Noodling and kneading is a waste. Quit now! I started telling myself to Step it the fuck up. Whatever the FIRST blog post is better be good, or else. You don’t want to let people down! When I posted about launching InfoDumpster Fire I was surprised, tbh. Even the biased "Uncle Algo" let a 10th of my audience see it and people were excited to read what I write, fr?

I berated myself: You're a pro, dammit. Just PICK something! (And, I have. I'll be writing about the "Mother of Invention"–next I guess. This "quick" meta first post is already 1600, 1789, 2000+ words.)

Screenshots of photos of image searches of the word "Professional" showing people in suits, mostly white because Uncle Algo is a biased asshole, on a purple background.
What image says "professional" according to image searches? I hate that word anyway.

In case I was getting too close to finishing, on top of searching for the perfect pro images, adding alt-texts, breaking for water (which still hasn't happened!) I put even more fabricated additional pressure on myself and remembered that I would be letting ME down the most—(ND overthinking strikes again).

The whole point of doing my OWN blog was to remove THESE blockers: To get ALL this stuff OUT. To stop sitting on, mulling over, editing, and just hit PUBLISH. To share it, messy and unpolished. To start making sense of it with others.

"InfoDumpster Fire"–how I love thee as a blog name, a url, and a concept…but as a brain, you do not make focusing easy!

What's funny is getting this stuck was not a surprise, (good thing, since I loath surprises). Neurodivergent minds are reliable in their unreliability. I knew it would happened, which is why I put it in the disclaimer.

Neurodivergent minds are reliable in their unreliability.

If it was life or death, it'd be done. If it was client work, not even a question. But for me, I will get to it when I get to it. I refuse to add capitalist pressure to produce on time to my umteenth personal project.

This dumpster can always wait. No one is lacking garbage to consume. ICYMI the world is still a HOT MESS and I am a sick hot mess, too.

Who's to blame?

I've offered plenty of evidence my neurodivergent, polymathic brain and love of ALL THE THINGS, is an easy patsy.

I could just as easily blame the tornado sensory information and an endless stream of content.

Decision fatigue is also a contender as a scapegoat my tardiness. My poor 45-year-old head is heavy, sick or not, weighted from the barrage of choices that come at me hourly. Our brains make ~120 important ones a day; as a mom, that sounds low. Some studies claim we make 35,000 decisions a day, (also debatable).

Ironically the thing for decision fatigue–reduce information overload. Oops.

To get unstuck, I started a list of all the things I could write my first post about. I realized these happen to be the same things I can blame for NOT getting this done yesterday. More irony.

So much to write about and so much process. So many things to fault for my creative delays. This gave me some solace.

I could blame publishing my first post, “late” on my brain, AND BE ON BRAND.
I could blame the cough medicine, fever dreams, lack of sleep since…I don’t know, 2008.
Blame dehydration, because writing in hyper-focus is a thing, (One sec, I need a drink of something…)
I could blame the January 6th anniversary, or news that keeps alerting me that nothing important has happened, make sure to click her immediately.

Blame congress, the majority of white men in suits and ties, almost brawling, acting out like the Jets and the Sharks with far less grace. Gaetz taunting like a bully, as Broebart sat to his left smug AF, the GOP acting like fools. (They remain as out of hand today as they were 366 days ago. Their continued poor form is more dramatic than last year's Oscars slap, and those guys were actors; drama is part of the job. Congress people are supposed to govern. But I digress...)

Blame every NYT and Atlantic Op Ed written by a boomer man that make my head want to explode, especially if they wrote about the economy, the key to happiness, or everything wrong with progressives.

Gif of Madeline Kahn in Clue as Mrs. White in a black dress, Colonel mustard standing behind her, saying "ttthe ff flames flames on the side of my face...breathing..breathle-heaving breaths...heaving..."
My favorite quote of this whole movie.

Blame Dan Price, fucking Dan Price, who I’ve already vomited over 3k words about into a draft because I. Simply. Cannot. Even. He just waltzed back into social media like he’d been on a silent retreat 2 weeks ago. Out of nowhere, he started posting on LinkedIn again, attempting to reclaim his king Thought Leader of the Century title, and crown himself the guy of good business.

Blame Price skipping straight over his resignation from his own company last August. He still had CEO in his title until 3 days ago (when he changed his profile pic to one with his dog and his mom). Zero mention of the fact Price remains under multiple rape and sexual assault allegations, and ignoring anyone who linked to an article about it. (I blame this for about 90% of my inability to finish any work, anywhere the past 2 weeks, because…FLAMES).

Blame LinkedIn's algorithm–I sure af do–that loves a good white guy in business spouting the obvious. This is why vapid posts by Dan Price or Simon Sinek immediately get hundreds of likes and millions of views. Meanwhile they shadowban excellent writers and creators, suspending Black women's accounts on a whim.

Blame being a small business owner, and the looming 1099s I have to deal with for the 5 contractors I managed to pay last year, which are going to be complicated because I paid them from far too many different places, just to make sure I was direct depositing quickly, while waiting on clients to pay me.
Blame the stress of startup life, struggling with NO cashflow (which is over half of us, by the way. No shame!)
Blame the outdated procurement terms of State governments, their net-45 terms and payments that never showed during the holidays, thank you very much.
Blame Oregon state sending me bills for $1k in unemployment money they want me to send back! (OR UI claims I did not report properly for 2 weeks sometime in 2020 or early 2021, like I was just chilling on vacay and tricking them those weeks, but the rest I was legit?)
Blame bills and inflation (supposedly getting better?!)
Blame the climate crises and a war over oil, which are never far from my mind. The fires. Blame the fires.

I guess I could always blame it on my puppy, Mabel, because, look at her! What a shana punim. Dogs are known to eat homework: plausible deniability.

Dog, black face, white body with gray spots, sitting on a bed with blue wave blanket, pillows and picture frames on the wall blurred out of focus.
My Dog Mabel, keeping guard.

Blame navigating kids playdates and bday parties via texts from isolation, worrying if we did the right thing sending kids to school masked; (they never got it).
Blame it on the day being almost over, and the sun going down. My migraine aura kicking in because I told you I haven’t moved in 2+ hours.
Blame it on the wind and storm on my roof, lulling me to sleep.
Blame it on the rain…I always do. (And with that, I gift you a Milli Vanilli earworm...some echolalia for your Saturday evening).

With all this fire, we could use a little rain.

And I need a goddamn nap.