It’s probably not a coincidence that I’m thinking about blogging again in the new year. New Year’s is always a little more for me because my birthday is New Year’s Eve. The turning over of the calendar is a little more literal. When I finished my Sunday Zine project last May, I thought I would carry that momentum into a book a month. But I was more burned out than I knew, and by the end of summer, I wondered if making art was even worth it anymore. That’s when I started blogging again. Just short paragraphs, one thought fleshed out beyond the 140 characters I’ve been so used to writing over the last ten years.

But it didn’t take long before my brain started asking, what’s the point? Actually, I should call it depression. It’s not my brain; it’s my brain depressed. I’ve been down since Brexit, numb since the US election, and this winter has been colder than ever. So I stopped blogging again. I’ve done it so many times before, so who cares?

I do. And if my depression doesn’t, then I have to care harder.