Liminal

(The space between...)

2025 has been…something…so far, yes?

No need to recap.

But let me tell you why you’re reading this rather than Chapter Eight from Stay With the Music.

Chapter Eight is called “The Magic Summer.” It’s about the happiest summer of my life.

In 2015.

A seemingly simpler time.

A time before… you know.

When we couldn’t fathom what was coming down the pike.

I was in love—with Craig, with me, with my life, with the world. And the world was reciprocating tenfold.

Chapter Eight is lengthy. As I began to go through the process of editing it, I also went through the process of emotions. I knew reading it was going to stir up some things. I thought that was a good thing.

I couldn’t get to the bottom of the second page without erupting in tears.

I couldn’t get through the rest of the chapter, either.

The emotions weren’t the problem. It was the heaviness.

You know, that feeling that we’re being pushed to the brink and we might not make it. As much as I’ve tried to be empathetic without being consumed by it, even I’m feeling it these days.

I have been making the case that we need the written word—we need art, music, books, dance, theater, film (did I miss any?)—to get us through these days. We need them the way we need lighthouses to guide us through the dark, stormy seas or the foggy skies.

We need the light of the things we create.

And yet, I have also been questioning whether to continue writing this series and sharing these chapters.

For one thing, the CEO of Substack recently praised a certain broligarch (and I would love to take credit for that word, but alas, I stole it from someone else) who is wreaking havoc everywhere. And although it seemed more like the kid praising the bully to keep from being beaten up, it was still disconcerting, to say the least, and it’s justifiably driven many writers and friends from the platform.

Thing is, I don’t think any platform is a “safe space” when it comes to avoiding those either spewing hate or condoning others who do. And I know many writers are caught between the rock of needing to follow their moral compass and the hard place of relying on the much-needed income such platforms deliver, myself included.

Almost six months ago, I began this series and this project with the best of intentions. At the time, I needed structure and stability. I needed to transmute the grief of losing my sweet Spatzy and being apart from my husband.

I also had something to say. Truths to explore. Stories to be told. I wanted to reestablish a connection with readers, and I didn’t want them to wait for a manuscript to be published.

Most of all, I wanted that connection to truly resonate with them.

And yes, I both wanted and needed assistance with not only finishing my memoir, but also publishing it.

All of the above netted positive results, intrinsically and extrinsically.

In short, I wanted—and needed—to write.

Because writing (and Duran Duran, for that matter) is one of the constants in my life. It has been with me always. It has been my lighthouse, my sounding board, my playground, and my sanctuary. It has given voice to my dreams and alchemized my pain. Were I to write “a memoir of the craft” a la Stephen King’s On Writing, you’d see a history of ebb and flow, but ever-present.

That might be metaphor overkill, but each one works in its own way.

I never became a writer—I simply was one, from the moment I knew how to put letters together. Regardless of whether I was writing professionally or from the pages of a secret diary, the letters formed words, which formed sentences, and kept building from there.

The question isn’t whether to keep writing. It’s whether this is the time and place.

Because the more chaotic the world gets, the more I want to retreat from those spaces that contribute to the chaos. If we’re at the end of days, then I want to spend those days living, not documenting.

Yesterday, Jamie Lee Curtis posted this on Threads:

The word has been coming up a lot for me in various contexts lately, and when you think about it, it’s a good description of a memoir. And that makes a strong case for documenting.

But the documenting I’m referring to above involves—and perhaps even depends on—the endless hamster wheel of chasing Followers, Subscribers, Likes, Shares, and Sales.

I’d rather be in the space between.

Here’s the bottom line for today:

I couldn’t bring myself to finish editing the chapter. I think we could all use a pause for a collective cry and a group hug and a few deep breaths. (And I say that with all the compassion and empathy I have to offer.)

Thus, I’m not announcing the end of this series. Just the pause.

For now, one week.

Time to think.

To decide.

To find joy in the little things, however fleeting.

To hold the light for myself and others.

To simply write rather than post.

To be rather than chase.

The wonder of this human experience is contrast. What a time to be liminal. What a time to be in the space between dark and light.

What a time to be a writer.