Les Bon Temps

These are the good times, I think.

All month, my little town has been a sea of celebration, Mardi Gras floats rolling down the streets and strands of beads dangling from the trees. I am stuffed with king cake.

My family is well. My dad is back on his feet after upgrading his ground-down hip to a titanium model, and my grandfather just celebrated his 97th birthday.

The birds are migrating through Lower Alabama, heralding spring.

And I’ve been writing my tailfeathers off. Who could ask for anything more?¹

In the last few months, I’ve written about a custom saddlemaker who learned the trade from his father; the origin story of Fairhope’s chicest bar / coffee shop / grocery; a multigenerational Christmas party with a surprisingly poignant backstory and a punch so potent that the host calls on her ancestors to guide its making; and a stunning home that pushes midcentury modern design into fresh territory and makes me want to move right in. Just yesterday, I filed another delicious feature that will be published in the April issue of Mobile Bay magazine.

I’ve also written a couple of recent op-eds for the Alabama Reflector, a wonderful nonprofit newsroom. I started by skewering the inane antics of the Alabama Public Library Service board, and I chased that with a piece spotlighting a program that keeps unhoused people out of inclement weather. I have more of these in the pipeline.

On top of that, I’ve thrown a personal writing project into the mix. A few weeks ago, I made the dubious decision to document my training for a marathon-length hike, writing weekly entries in a pop-up Substack journal that will conclude once I make my final trek through the Talladega National Forest on the first weekend in May. (The decision is dubious only insofar as I’m documenting as I go, so I have no idea if it will ultimately serve up a satisfying story. It’s an experiment. Come along and watch me struggle – both with walking lots and lots of miles and with writing about it – in real time.)

And then there’s the last thing – 

I hardly dare whisper it into the world. 

Can you keep a secret?

On quiet mornings before work, I’ve been scribbling in a notebook, working on a long-form fiction piece that might one day become a novel. This is attempt number three, so don’t tell anyone about it yet and don’t ask me what it’s about. It feels fragile.

This is all good and wonderful. It used to be that when people asked me what I do, I would say that I’m a graphic designer, and I write occasional magazine features when I have time. Lately I’ve been flipping that around, telling people that I’m a writer and graphic designer. Then I add a coda: I would love to be a writer full-time.

I don’t believe in manifesting per se, but I do believe in speaking intentions out loud and giving the universe a chance to deliver them. Judging by the accelerating run of projects with my name on them, it seems like I might be on the right track.

So yes, by all accounts, these are the good times.

And yet I find myself tinged with – not a blue mood exactly, but a sense of quietude that feels fitting for Ash Wednesday, the day when the Carnival season gives way to Lent. Even Mardi Gras day has always felt to me like it’s exhausted with itself. Most of the parades are done, most of the people bloated and hungover. (Or simply gone. Since kids are out of school all week, lots of locals split town, seeking snowy slopes or palm-studded beaches.) The atmosphere on Fat Tuesday feels deflated.

And so I find myself sitting in the mood of this transitional day contemplating all the various writing opportunities I’ve said yes to, wanting to draw them up into a map that helps me chart a course forward. The bits and bylines feel like progress, but I’m not sure yet what they add up to.

For now, I’ll just keep speaking my intentions into the universe and getting in as many writing reps as I can. I’ll give myself grace to drift with the current mood, but I won’t let it engulf me. I’m too old to be that self-indulgent. I’ll practice being comfortable in the unknowing, and I’ll remember:

These are the good times.

1. A caveat: Yes, the world is a damn mess. Paraphrasing Oscar Hammerstein, I’m just talking about my own little corner, all alone in my own little chair.