September 22nd, 2023
There are certain parameters that people find themselves more comfortable sharing within, and I fit into many of those boxes.
As a bartender, people are surprisingly open with me; as a person who is public about their sobriety and struggles with addiction, people are surprisingly open with me; as a writer, oh boy, people are so surprisingly open with me.
But none of that compares to what happens when I put on a superhero’s suit.
I could write a book about my experiences playing superheroes (Marvel, call me, unless it’s about a lawsuit). But the moments that stick with me are the things people tell me when I’m in that suit.
I’ve heard their severe financial troubles, somber reflections, sharp heartbreaks; serious (and seriously personal) stories of loss and grief, political rage, familial conflict, bitter rivalries. I’ve been the bearer of secrets, hopes, dreams, and tragedies.
And I’ve thought about why this is for a long time.
It actually makes total sense: when you stop trusting the people around you, your family and friends and neighbors, your community, politicians, the media, all of our trusted institutions, who do you have left?
Your heroes.
When you think there isn’t anybody who can save you, you refer to those who always have, even if you consciously know that’s just a normal dude wearing a few dollars worth of latex.
I think we have similar attitudes towards animals.
Animals are heroes of problem-solving.
It’s why we’re fascinated by nature. Humans complicate everything. (EVERYTHING. Is there a thing? We complicate it.) We love watching animals deal with problems because they do so efficiently, in the least complex way.
We know how to do this and simply refuse.
And in 2020, when I, like so many people on this planet, was feeling overwhelmed and anxious and depressed and didn’t think that any human power could fix it, could fix us, I turned to the animals for help.
I wondered what they would do if they were facing the impossible obstacles we were. And one truth became immediately apparent: our problems aren’t impossible at all.
We’re the ones who are impossible.
This is the last essay of Theia month, and I just want to thank everyone who has been so supportive of this now-three-year-old novella. It was my return to writing prose fiction; in fact, it was my first published book since getting sober. To get the response I have is nothing short of grand and humbling. This has been one of my most enjoyable revisits, and the number of people who discovered the book this month is mind-blowing; I hope you’ll consider joining our Theia Book Club at Duck Duck Coffee on October 11th.
Through all the twists and feels and laughs and tears, though, I hope readers take away one thing:
Nothing is impossible.
And, sometimes, the way we fix things is by staying exactly where we are.
The Den 