“Annnnd done!” I posted my final story for the month, copy-pasted links on the appropriate pages, and let out a happy sigh. I started to close my laptop, but a keyboard gremlin crawled out from between the keys.
“Wait, wait! You can’t be done yet!” He tapped his clawed foot and crossed his spindly arms, annoyed.
“But I am done. Thirty-one days, thirty-one stories, and now I need a nap and a cookie. Lots of cookies,” I told him.
“But you haven’t bared your soul through fiction!” He protested. He reached down into the crevasse between H and J and pulled out a chart. “July 2022: first year of Flash Fiction, started because your cat died and you were having a hard time writing anything.”
“Hey…why’d you have to bring that up?” I frowned.
“July 2023,” the gremlin continued. “Flash fiction month became an important distraction as you learned to deal with a recently diagnosed medical condition.”
“Dude…” I hid my face in my hands. “I’m fine now.”
“And finally, July 2024, with some newly minted PT–“
“Don’t say it,” I snapped.
“Learning how to write again after the world exploded. You really put a lot on the page there. So, what’s going on for this year?” He flipped to the next page on the chart. “Two young, healthy cats, your own health is pretty good, and your mental health is way, way, way better than it was this time last year.”
I stared at him, utterly confused. “So what’s the problem?”
He flicked his tail in annoyance. “The problem is that you haven’t bled nearly enough onto the page. Your stories are normal and aren’t about meltdowns or your most personal fears. Where’s the edge?”
“Did it ever occur to you that since I’m doing well right now…that this is just for fun?”
The gremlin’s mouth dropped open.
I put my finger on his head, between his curly horns, and pushed him back into the keyboard.
A snail sitting on my shoulder hiccuped. “Why’d you keep that guy around?”
“He eats the crumbs that get between the keys,” I told her. “Want to do margs and karaoke, Progress?”
A slow smile came across her slimy face. “Always.”
This one’s a bit personal. At the end of FFM, I like to write a little reflection about how the month has gone for me. And since I’ve started doing FFM, it’s always seemed to come with some big life problem. But this year has been just…normal. I’m a million times better than I was at this time last year. Progress isn’t measurable in the way that a lot of things are. But comparing this FFM to last year’s, I can see how far I’ve come. It’s a good feeling.
I’m not 100% fixed. I may never be. But I’m doing really well. As some of you may remember from last year: Progress is a drunk snail. It moves slowly, and never in a straight line.
It’s okay to not be okay.
But you know what?
It’s okay to be okay too. 💜
Overlooked Books 