First off:

The first wave of The Purple Drop is live. There’s ten pens this time. I’ve already started the next wave of pens, with blanks cut from the same colorways and casts. 

And off we go.

“I’ve seen this war before, I’ve fought in many more just like it – I hate it, but I fight it.” -Nicotine Dolls, ‘Hate It // Fight It’

I have told myself that I will not send a product newsletter without an actual letter attached to it – a personal one. I hate marketing emails with a burning passion that simmers just slightly below the raging inferno of distaste I have for unsolicited advice and a hair above my hazardous chemicals container of irritation for people saying things they don’t mean to be polite. Telling myself I wouldn’t write those kinds of emails was the only way I could make myself actually write newsletters. No big deal right?

In theory. The problem is, tonight, I have a major shop update, but I am so tangled up about personal things it’s making it difficult to write, and even more difficult to find something relatable to write about. 

So I’m going to do what I’ve found helps most in this kind of situation: write about the difficulty of writing and see where it goes. (And edit judiciously, out of respect.)

I guess saying I don’t want to write about what’s going on isn’t entirely accurate. I’d REALLY like to talk through some of it, but I don’t want the platitudes or advice. I don’t want pity or sympathy, and if one more person assumes I’m fragile or weak because I can publicly filet my heart like a just-beheaded fish, I am probably going to incinerate some bridges. And, okay, yeah, I am also worn out from having to politely explain why generic suggestions won’t work, just so people don’t feel ignored or that their care is unappreciated. (Because I do appreciate that they care. I just wished they knew to reflect on if I had the bandwidth for managing their need to help on top of the situation at hand, too.) 

So, I quit talking about a whole lot of things. I quit writing about what was going on with me personally outside of the farm or work, because I was fed up with, well, people trying to help without considering if they actually COULD help. It was easier and kinder to everyone all around. I didn’t have the extra energy, and I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of people who were genuinely trying to help, who cared, who were doing what they thought was kind and good and helpful. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for their attempt at kindness, and risk being labeled as a bitch or ostracized or told I should be more grateful or… you know how it goes. So I was either quiet, or played nice. (Usually it was quiet, because Nice based on how society sees me has some pretty narrow parameters and I am HORRIBLE at being those things with a straight face.)

See what I’m wrestling with here? 

I want to be seen, I want to share, but to be seen in a world that has a very limited window of acceptable is an exhausting, uphill battle of a risk. To seek to be seen takes a kind of courage you only get when you’ve built it by hand on a rock-bottom foundation – or don’t know about the consequences yet. To be open, vulnerable, growing, learning, discovering and to share that process in a culture that idolizes perfection and flawless facades demands the kind of bravery that only the naive or very confident have. It is the paradox of vulnerability, and, much to my current frustration, people usually assume you’re the former because they think they know better than to risk it all just to be seen. 

Wishing you confidence,

A. Markov