Message from a writer (who just wants to write again)

I used to be just a writer.

Just a music obsessed vocalist.

Just an artist.

I taught myself to write as a young person because I loved to read. It was really that simple: read a lot, study the words. Watch the patterns form. Do it yourself.

I went to school for writing because I wanted it to be even better. More polished. More refined. But mainly because I wanted to learn the “why” in what makes a story good. I wanted to know specifically why MY stories were good.

I never thought about being a social media author, or even connecting with a community of other authors on socials.

And yes, no matter if you’re in the traditional or indie space, networking is important. Building relationships with other writers & editors & designers, etc. is what you’re SUPPOSED to do. It’s not just a social media thing, it’s a writer thing. I get that. (Trust me, the amount of group projects I was forced to do in school reminded me of that every day.)

But something was lost along the way.

Some of you may remember that I first made my Instagram as a business page. It’s had many names over the years, but I started with social media copywriting, then moved to ghostwriting, then moved to writing mentoring.

But the problem was, all I wanted to do was actually write. I mean, okay, tbh I didn’t always wanna write, lol, but I just wanted to be a WRITER. I didn’t want to do all of those other things that were adjacent to my passion. So I flipped the script. Turned this into an author page. Made things simple, and more aligned to who I was as a person and an artist.

I met a few solid people, but mostly minded my business. Shared some snippets of stuff I was working on, a few poems here and there, and just tried to have fun.

I even wrote a whole book because of this space. Truly, I don’t know when or if Feeding Lucy would’ve happened if it weren’t for the urge to give you all something of mine to finally hold in your hands.

But then the pressure set in.

Podcasts, reviews, arcs, collabs, events, marketing, etc. became part of my every day vocabulary. Then the pressure to write another book came.

“I need at least one book a year,” I’d say to myself.

But that became unrealistic really quickly. I’m not just an indie author, but I’m a Disabled indie author. I’m also a Disabled person who loves a lot of different things, loves creating a lot of different things. I also, as all of us do, have a life outside of this little space here on the internet.

I didn’t wanna have to keep up with every other indie author on here. That was never supposed to be what this was for. Writing was never supposed to feel … like this.

So I did what I did best: got overwhelmed, stopped posting, stopped writing the new book I was working on, and focused on other things completely.

But the urge to get my thoughts on paper was itching the back of my brain the whole time.

I never wanted to become so overwhelmed by writing—never wanted it to become such a “job”—that it destroyed my passion completely.

Let me reiterate: it was NEVER supposed to be this way.

And let me also be clear: I may have trouble getting myself to write sometimes. I may not always view it as fun or something I HAVE to do all the time. I may even go months without touching a story …

But it was ALWAYS going to be a part of me, whether I liked it or not.

I think what’s happened in the years since promoting myself as an author online, is that I lost what it once was to me. I don’t think I even recognized it for what it was: because realistically I knew that as a Disabled writer I was going to have a different pace than others. I knew that I didn’t have to write every day like I used for it to still mean that much to me.

But inevitably I did get sucked up into  the mindset of the online space. The mindset of doing more. Showing up all the time. Having something to prove, or at least show for my years of experience as a storyteller.

And if we’re being REALLY vulnerable—it comes from a place of feeling excluded. I ALWAYS felt like an outsider in those spaces, minus the small group of people I’ve been able to work with and build solid relationships with.

I learned ways to get my writing out there. The people to talk to. The sites to go on. The groups to join. I did it all, because I thought I was “supposed” to.

And did it get a few more eyes on my book? Yes. Did I meet great people (especially those who helped make my book beautiful and polished) along the way? Also yes.

But some of the other things—the marketing, the posts, the schmoozing—distracted me from the actual writing, which I can’t reiterate enough …

WAS THE WHOLE POINT THE ENTIRE TIME.

I even started to question if I really wanted to be a writer anymore. If I was even cut out for this.

Again, I didn’t realize that the space itself, and the anxiety and pressure it inevitably caused (mostly by my own anxious hand), was the reason for these feelings.

I thought maybe I just really wasn’t a writer anymore. Or at least was pretending to be one while all I actually did was watch reality tv in bed all day.

And I’ll say the quiet part out loud: it sucked the creativity right out of me.

But in the midst of the exposing of horrific, hateful, and bigoted actions of several people in the indie horror community recently, I realized being an outsider in communities like that isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Maybe … just maybe, it was (and I repeat) NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WAY.

Maybe getting our stories on paper was all it was supposed to be the entire time.

All of that to say, I don’t really know what the future holds.

I’m (sort of) writing a new book—something less fantastical and scary, and more raw, more real, more about what comes from within.

And I’ll definitely tell you about it, when the time is right.

I’ll still do all the things, put it up on all the places, talk about it with people who actually care about it.

My presence on socials will not just disappear into bloody smoke-filled dust.

But I’m not going to be an “Instagram  author” anymore. I’m not going to worry myself about being part of the “indie book community” online anymore.

I wanna get back to what (I think) we all came here for:

The writing.

The books.

The creativity.

I’ll take my sweet ass time writing my stories, and I won’t worry about how much I’m posting, how much I’m putting out, how many books I’ll have in a few years.

I won’t worry about how many people read my stories, just that the right people are reading my stories.

That the ones who need to read them, find them.

I’ll limit events to those ran by people I trust, filled with authors I support, and readers who just want to read good stories.

I’ll maybe even write again, knowing that I no longer have to worry about how much I’m getting done, how long I’ve been silent on social media, or if I’m doing enough to promote it or am connected to the right people.

The only thing I need to be connected to is the page.

That’s the only thing that should’ve ever mattered.

With that said, I may not be posting on socials much, may even quietly disappear for a short while, just to get back to the stuff that actually matters.

But know that even in my absence, words will be written. Art will be made. Creativity will exist again.

They couldn’t take it from me if they tried.

-Mo

no one told me there’d be small talk: Finding lesbian community as an anxious newcomer

pt. 1 :going it alone

I want to start this off with the disclaimer that I give everyone—I’m not actually new to being openly Queer, having Queer friends, or even attending Queer events.

The first memory of Queer attraction that I can recall was when I was four years old—rather, it was the first memory of attraction that I’d experienced at all. Which should have told me something sooner, but I digress.

I’d been proudly out as Bisexual since I was at least thirteen, because at the time, that’s the only thing that made sense in a world where heterosexuality was the norm. I couldn’t ignore my attraction to Sapphic people, but I was also conditioned to think if a guy was not completely terrible, he must be worth trying out.

And as I grew older, the young Sapphic in me only got stronger. I dated girls in high school, even falling in love with a best friend or two. I also, ironically, spent a year or two as a fully out Lesbian, coming out for a second time, until insecurity, shame, trauma, and the ever-persistent teenage boy suffocated me with the slimy grips of Compulsory Heterosexuality. But I wasn’t heterosexual, and I knew that. I wouldn’t let go of my Queerness, no matter how desperately I wanted to be a “normal” girl.

But yet, I trapped myself in a cycle of craving Queer love but settling for something that I thought I could want. But it just never seemed … right.

Here's the timeline for anyone confused:

-Was attracted to women and Sapphic people as early as four years old.

-Came out as Bisexual in early high school or eighth grade

-Came out again as a Lesbian for a short time in my mid-late teens

-Got confused, dated men seriously until my thirties

-Came out as Gender Fluid at 31

-Came out another damn time as a Lesbian in 2024 at 34 years old.

-Spent a year unpacking my entire identity and crying like, every day.

And that brings us to today …

But this isn’t about my coming out story, or the many coming out stories I’ve collected over the years.

This is about finding community, finding people that understand the aching longing that comes with being a Lesbian who’s stopped themselves from getting what they really want, for one reason or another.

Or maybe it’s about finding people who’ve always known what they wanted. The people I’d longed to be.

I wanted it so, so badly.

And at 35, I don’t have the energy to spend on things that I don’t want anymore.

So where does that leave me?

I made a decision: 2025 is the year of me finding Lesbian community. Going to events in my city. Participating in things I’d never participated in before. Taking my Queerness beyond just the Pride Parade and falling in love with practically every friend I ever had.

But there was a problem …

I am disabled. I am 35 years old. I am newly out, even with my years of out and proud Queerness lurking behind me.

I stopped drinking altogether a few years ago. Another story for another day.

I recently had to walk away from my entire friend group of 20+ years. Also another story for another day.

But the point is, things in my life have drastically changed, and I am in this on my own. No support, no encouragement, no one to fall back on if things don’t work out.

I am anxious, introverted, awkward—vulnerable in a new way, and scared.

So, so scared.

But this is something I have to do on my own.

So this is where it all begins …

[Note: I will be mentioning an event that happened recently in my city, a place many people are aware that I’m from, but I will be trying my best not to give away any identifying information about what the event was or who was running it. However, if you know what event I’m referring to, please do me a favor and not reach out to anyone or mention names! Anything I mention here is purely my experience, and to no fault of anyone organizing or attending. The event itself was a success, and I’m happy for everyone involved. But this is a story about my awkward experiences, after all, so take what I say next with a grain of salt!]

Ok, back to the story …

After many failed attempts (over the whole year that I was officially out) at going to events, buying tickets, but then chickening out last minute—including Lesbian speed dating events, a Lesbian Valentines Day party, and many a craft night (maybe I’ll write about those experiences, or non-experiences, one day too?)—I had finally signed up for something that I wasn’t going to back out of.

It was a free event, so if I failed to participate, at least I wouldn’t waste yet another ticket.

It was also intended for people to come alone, for them to meet new people.

It wasn’t a dating thing, it was strictly a platonic thing, meant for folks who had previously expressed anxiety coming to events without knowing anybody.

People who sounded a lot like me …

It was low stakes, but with the potential for making lasting friendships.

It sounded perfect for this (sometimes) extroverted introvert—a way to make friends, build community, and all with a group of people who may be, potentially, just as awkward as I am.

It was almost too good to be true. It had to be too good to be true.

But maybe that’s just me foreshadowing.

I arrived a few minutes late, rationalizing the act of not being exactly on time for fear of being the first one there, lonely and awkward as ever.

But then traffic ended up being a nightmare, more than what I’d even expected during rush hour. I was a few minutes later than I even intended to be. Still, not severely late, but definitely not on time. I had assumed there to be people there already, but walking up to a circle of 50+ people who had already established their “groups” and had already begun meaningful conversations with their new peers, was not exactly what I assumed to be the case, either.

I guess Lesbians in my city are on time. Good to know. Jot that down.

My lateness plan, birthed from the nineties and early aughts, built by television and movies from the time convincing us that every phone call, every hang out, every interaction with other humans had to be carefully planned out so as not to seem too desperate, too eager, too much … well it was okay in theory, I guess. But in practice it had failed me deeply.

And in retrospect, that conditioning I’d had from youth, the one that told me to not appear too wanting of something, was also built on misogyny and heteronormativity—which in all its essence was the exact opposite of how I was trying to live my life.  

So, although nervous, I continued on to them anyway, the giant lesbian flag waving in the wind the perfect reminder that I was in the right place.

Trembling, weak MS legs and all, I made my way over, but with no mobility device in sight, might I add—another instance of my internalized biases biting me in the ass.

Bring your damn walker next time. Jot that down, too.

Walking up to the large group of other local Sapphics, I was immediately welcomed, the entire group clapping and cheering for my arrival like they’d been waiting for me the whole time. Another unexpected part of the evening; I was incredibly aware of my existence, uncomfortable as ever, but at least this time it was in a positive way.

But sitting down amongst the chatting folks was a completely different story.

I want to reiterate:

None of this is the fault of the event itself, the organizers of the event, or the people attending the event. I can’t put blame onto other for my own social shortcomings. People were friendly, inviting, even helping me get adjusted into my spot in the crowd.

I even talked a bit with the people around me, at least for a little while.

But, as I’ve come accustomed to in large groups, conversations faded away with glares off into the distance, or quick glances behind shoulders to find someone else in the crowd that matched their vibe a little more. Group chats become one-on-ones, me being the oddball out.

It felt like school all over again: like I was that little kid who never felt like I fit in. Like I couldn’t connect even with several people around me. Like I was an alien, and everybody knew it.

And I get it, I do. The whole point of the event was to find your people, and without searching the crowd, talking to multiple groups of people, or not walking away to call your safe person to avoid awkward interactions with people who didn’t seem to be interested in … whatever it is you have to offer—not much is going to happen in regards to building community.

These things are my fault, I know this. I know what I could’ve done better. I know that I didn’t fully immerse myself into the experience. I know that I could’ve found my people if I would’ve just moved from the spot I was in.

And, of course, it’s not just because I didn’t want to move. I can talk about inaccessibility and ableism in the Queer community for days, but I’ll spare you those thoughts. For now.

In that moment, feeling more isolated than ever while surrounded by nearly a hundred other people enjoying their time, the only thing I could think of was to run away.

And so, I did.

After calling my safe person so it didn’t seem like I was just some quiet mystery floating away from the crowd (or worse: that they could tell I felt isolated and pitied me), I grabbed my stuff and casually walked away without saying a word.

An Irish Goodbye without the alcohol but full of all the same regret.

And it’s not that I regretted going to the event. It was a great event, for everyone else. I’m just a ball of anxiety, past pain, and a history of clinging on to things and people that weren’t good for me, so understandably I may be a little jaded. A little anxious. A little unwelcoming myself.

I’m not super young and outgoing anymore, even though I’ve put myself out there in so much scarier ways in my thirties than I ever had in my twenties. I don’t drink anymore, which helped me to take off the mask for a little while. I’m not the same as I used to be, and my life isn’t the same, either.

But, to give myself grace, I’ve also never had to start anew again with the circumstances that I’ve had land in my lap the last few years. I’ve never had to expose myself like this without any of the other aids that used to carry me through.

Hell, I didn’t even have my actual mobility aid, to physical help me through the event.

The point is, there are a lot of factors to why this didn’t work out for me. None of which have to do with the event itself, or with my own personality or “vibe.”

Not all things can be for everyone, and that’s something I have to learn.

Just because one event didn’t work out, doesn’t mean the next one won’t.

It doesn’t mean that there’s something fundamentally wrong with me either.

It doesn’t mean I’m an alien.

So … I’m gonna keep trying. Maybe there will be more awkward events. Or maybe I’ll actually find people to connect with. I won’t know unless I try, so I’m going to do just that.

That being said, stay tuned for pt. 2!

Until then, let’s remember together that it’s okay to be scared of doing things.

But let’s do them anyway.

Xoxo,

Mo Medusa