It’s not that Serious

I tend to make things bigger than they are; mountains out of molehills are my jam. I learned it from my dad, who tells the best (most exaggerated) stories. His stories are important, serious, emotional, funny, and BIG, and I guess I want my life to feel that way too.

  • If I have a conversation with someone and I get a weird vibe, I immediately assume they hate me and go over everything I’ve said to them with a fine-tooth comb. 
  • I take my Instagram breaks like Galadriel going into battle against the Orcs (IYKYK) – as if these breaks will save my soul, or prove that I have a handle on my dopamine addiction (I do not). 
  • I receive a writing rejection from a stranger who has read exactly one piece of my work and doubt my entire writing career – what’s the point? who cares? it’s time to give up. 
  • When I fail, forget to do something important at work, or mess up, it consumes me. It’s all I can think about. 

This list could go on and on, and as I read it back to myself I realize that most of what I give my attention to is not that serious. There are so many more important moments worth focusing on…

  • The other day, I FaceTimed my nieces and listened as they told me about the new school year, who their teachers are, and the books they’re reading. I made them laugh and they made me smile – that’s big, that’s important. 
  • A few weeks ago, we visited my husband’s grandmother. She’s in her 80’s and is as fierce and funny as the day I met her (16ish years ago). She came downstairs in her pearls, lipstick, and her favourite blue sweater, smiling from ear to ear. Surrounded by her family, her eyes glistened – that’s big, that’s important. 
  • I met up with my bestie for coffee after work. We talked about the things that ignite our souls – that’s big, that’s important. 
  • My much younger cousin, who I talk to almost every day, sends me photos of her little one. She tells me stories about motherhood, listens to me vent about nothing, and sends me posts about life and writing – that’s big, that’s important. 
  • When my OCD gets bad and I can’t leave the house without going through my compulsions, my husband pulls me out of it. It’s not easy to deal with me some days but he’s kind and patient – that’s big, that’s important. 
  • I am close with my family (in-laws included). I see them every week or every other week. I work with my sister (a few cubicles away) and get to spend my lunch hours with her. I text my brother weekly to make sure he hasn’t forgotten about me. I love my alone time and sometimes feel overwhelmed when I see everyone too often but they’re there – that’s what’s big, that’s what’s important. 

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack SEPT 24, 2024*

On Letting Go

I woke up this morning in a panic – my back sweaty, my breathing staggered and heavy. This happens often; I have nightmares about things I can’t remember and wake up my husband with my screams or huffing. Last night, I had a dream that wasn’t a nightmare exactly, but it bothered me just the same.

I’m sitting in a dark movie theatre, the only light coming from the screen in front of me. The scent of buttery popcorn fills my nostrils as I listen to those around me crunching loudly, including my nieces. The movie starts, and I shake my head, I know these characters. 

I’ve seen this movie before, I say to my nieces.

No way, Tia, it came out today, they reply in unison.

It takes a second to sink in; I recognize the characters because I created them. They’re the ones from my novel. The storyline is slightly different (better, maybe), but it’s still my story. The main character repeats a line I wrote, and I wake up, slowly coming out of my popcorn-scented dream world and into the reality where my husband snores louder than a revving engine. 

I feel panicky not because the story and characters were created by someone else in the dream but because I’m afraid they’ll never exist outside my head, outside my manuscript. I received several rejections in the past week from literary agents and publishing houses. My friend tells me to be patient, to believe in my book and to remember that I still have so many unanswered queries out there. 

Some days, I believe her. I can convince myself that she’s right; an agent is going to read my manuscript and want to represent me. On other days (when multiple rejections hit my inbox), I’m ready to throw out my notebook, change the bios on my socials, and never pick up a pen again. 

So, why haven’t I given up yet? Every single time I’ve taken a break from writing, it feels like I’ve lost a part of myself, and I’m pulled to pick up my pen before long. Rejection is part of writing, part of putting yourself out there. I can either file away my rejections and let them go, or I can give up and wonder what might have happened if I kept going. 

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack SEPT 12, 2024*

Everything Feels Different in September

In September 2022, before my first trip to Lisbon and Madeira, I deactivated my Instagram account. I kept my data off and used my phone as a camera, opening up time and the mental space required to enjoy my trip. My husband noticed that I was relaxed, happy, focused, and present but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was in Europe or because I was finally free from my phone. I kept my account deactivated for an entire month to test it out.

I read and wrote more that month than I had the entire year. I felt lighter, blissfully unaware as if my world had gotten quieter and brighter. I know a lot of people can use social media in the way it’s meant to be used, as a tool. They don’t feel FOMO or compare themselves to others, it doesn’t add a layer of anxiety into their life, and they’re able to have the apps on their phone without feeling compelled to open them. I am not one of those people and a break from Instagram was something I needed. 

In September 2023 I did the same thing, I deactivated Instagram just before my next trip and even took significant breaks throughout the year. I credit those breaks to finishing my novel One More Truth (now querying, contact me if you’re an agent interested in a novel inspired by my trips to Portugal and Fado music :P).

Every time I reactivate my account, I do so with a new-found gusto. Posting reels, stories, and photos to tell the 150 people who follow me that I still exist. I promise myself that this time I will use the platform as a way to promote my writing, gain a decent following, and attract an agent. That thought often lasts only a few days before I get caught up in doom-scrolling. Whether it’s in the elevator, sitting in the car before work, waiting in line, or even as I’m watching a show, I use Instagram to waste time and distract myself.

I get overwhelmed by the idea of making content and end up scrolling instead. I get caught up in views, followers, and reach because I’ve been told that you NEED a brand and a following to get an agent. For me, it all amounts to nothing: no words, no manuscript, and nothing to query.

I remember when social media wasn’t accessible on my phone. Time was spent writing in my notebook and reading books. Now, my brain can’t focus for long periods, it needs a hit of dopamine-fuelled screen time every 10-15 minutes. It’s as though I always need to be doing something that others can verify (liking a post, watching a story, or posting something of my own). Even my memory isn’t as sharp as it once was, glitching from overstimulation.

September crept up quickly this year and I’m looking forward to my Instagram break. I’m excited to start outlining my next novel, reading more books, following up with agents, spending quality time with people, and giving my brain a break. 

Everything feels different in September, a mix of cozy, comforting, fresh, and new. It feels like anything can happen this month, if I’m brave enough to work for it. 

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack AUG 30, 2024*

Finding Fulfillment: Exploring Dreams and Realities at Thirty-Five

I am on a boat, the smooth lulling waves become choppy and powerful, waking me from my sleep. It’s windy, cool, and yet the sun is blinding. I sit up and look around. There is land far off in the distance, to the north, east, west, and south of me. If I wanted to, I could row in any direction and find a place to rest my head but I don’t.

I didn’t end up here by accident, I rented the boat, I rowed and rowed and rowed. Once I got far enough, I dropped the anchor that’s attached to a thick rope. Only I can cut the line.

I don’t like change. Once I’m comfortable in a job, environment, or even in a friendship, it takes a lot to get me to leave it. It’s partly hard work, loyalty, and dedication, partly fear of the unknown.

At the age of thirty-five, even though I’m “settled”, I’m feeling just as lost as I did in my twenties. Maybe lost isn’t the word, I’m feeling unfulfilled. Some might say that what I’m missing is children and motherhood but I’ve written about not wanting children so many times that I don’t feel the need to harp on it again. I don’t resonate with the phrase childless by choice and I refuse to let it become my entire personality.

I often look to the other women in my life and wonder if they feel fulfilled, if they’re content with their life choices or if they have regrets. I look to my mother and wonder the same. Did she have dreams before she got married in her early twenties? Did anyone ever tell her to follow her heart? Did anyone ever say to her you can do anything you put your mind to? 

As an immigrant herself, the dream was to learn English, get married, buy a house, have children, and create a better life than her parents had. My mom might not have had big crazy dreams like mine but I see so much creativity, pride, and passion in her life. When I was a kid she painted floral designs on all of our clothes, made furniture for our Barbies, crocheted blankets, and painted every room in every house we lived in (multiple times). She bakes beautiful and delicious treats, has a garden and lawn that strangers compliment when they walk by, and decorates the house for Christmas as if it’ll be in a magazine. She created world of beauty for me and my siblings. She taught me how to be creative and how important it is to express yourself. 

I express myself with words, by creating worlds, and I feel the most inspired after a trip. I’m craving adventure, travel, the ability to see what the world has to offer. The writer in me craves new experiences but the worker in me finds peace in the every day; I like the assignments with their respective due dates, the monotony of the 9-5 day, and understanding my role in the cog of a large corporation.

The dreamer in me, the one on the boat, she doesn’t just crave new experiences, she sees them, feels them. She can picture herself writing stories in Europe, traveling to Thailand or Croatia, sitting in cafes, enjoying delicious meals with her husband, learning new languages, and meeting new people. The dreamer is always plotting, always thinking about the ways she can make this happen.

The realist, she doesn’t take risks. She would never risk a good job and its perks (especially in today’s economy) to live out some twenty-year-olds dream of a leap year across the world.

So where does that leave me?

Stuck on a boat, not sure which way to go.

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack AUG 24, 2024*

Rediscovering My Writing Voice: A Journey from Blogging to Novels and Back Again

Last week, my writing partner/bestie and I were talking about our old blogs, our writing, who we were in our twenties, and the fearlessness that came with being so young. Back then, I put my fingers to the keyboard with a reckless abandon. I wrote and posted about whatever I wanted to, often without a giving it a second thought. It wasn’t earth-shattering journalism, it wasn’t deep or profound, but if one person could relate to my ramblings I felt good about what I put on the Internet.

I started blogging in 2010, during that sweet time when blogging was cool (before it became cringe). This was before bloggers became influencers and influencers took over the world with paid posts for Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube Channels. I followed a lot of bloggers in Toronto and loved reading their posts because even if they were product reviews, there was a bit of personal stuff sprinkled in between. I learned a lot about what was going on in Toronto because of these blogs and wanted nothing more than to be one of the top bloggers in the city.

And then something changed, after years of putting my life online and having very few people care, I gave up. I couldn’t keep up with the other bloggers out there. I couldn’t keep up with the events or product reviews. I couldn’t keep up with the constant posts on Instagram and felt like I was failing as a writer. On top of that I felt gross when I wrote about something too personal or posted photos of my nieces. I worried that if I wrote about my mental health I might not get a job or be able to start a career. I deleted my Instagram (more than once) and Twitter accounts, and stopped updating my blog. I even stopped writing “seriously”. I told myself I was too busy working to spend time chasing the dream of being traditionally published.

I didn’t find my way back to writing until the second year of COVID, when I wrote two short story collections and two children’s books. I dove into the art of short stories and sent them to various magazines and website, hoping that they would get published. Very few did but my writing improved and that was important to me.

Earlier this year I finished my second novel, One More Truth. The novel was inspired by my trips to Portugal, stories told by my Avó Maria, and Fado music. So far I’ve queried 40 literary agents, received 9 rejections, and 2 full-manuscript requests. I’d be lying if I said that the rejections were easy. Every single one feels like a punch to the gut, proof that I’m a terrible writer with bad ideas and I should just stick to my 9-5. On a good day, a rejection feels like a challenge and its own reward. I find myself thinking I’m back, I’m trying, I’m brave, and it’ll happen.

Since getting back into writing, I’ve realized how much I missed sharing my thoughts with the few people who cared to read them. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to start blogging again since I’ll be competing with Substack, Instagram, Youtube, TikTok, and IRL streamers but I’d like to see what happens. I have no idea how often I’ll post or what I’ll write about but we can find out together.

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack AUG 3, 2024*