I want to type. But I can’t. My hand hurts too much. There’s too much more of it to do tomorrow, too.
My last day. And I’m going out making some awesome contributions to our future. Because that’s what team players do, until the bitter fucking end. And I don’t make $3 million for 82 games a year.
I digress, and since I have longterm-probably-arthritic hand problems flaring up, it ain’t good, really. So nights like these are bad for writers.
But it’s my last sleep before my last day. I’m all shook up inside.
I’m scared. Excited. Optimistic. Curious. Scared. Excited. Scared. Excited. Eating chocolate. Igettosleepineverydayhowfuckingawesomeisthat. Scared. You get the picture.
So much has happened. Some people want me to teach them how to cook. (I kinda rock it.) Northern Voice 2010 has selected my “How to Screw Up Your Personal Blog” as a presentation this year, so I’ll be giving a 30-minute speech, my first big engagement, in five weeks. “Hi, people who can give me work and pay me, I’m awesome, and here’s what you need to know — ” But I’m tweaking it still. Bear with me.
And a bunch of other little things have happened.
Unemployment looms, but I am NOT leaving to go into the Big Nothing. The Big Unknown? Fucking right. Big Nothing? Ahh, fuck off, it’s nothing of the sort!
You see, I want to write.
It’s been a whirlwind of a million miles an hour since Thursday.
And, um, through the scary-fear-madness of it all, can I just tell you a little secret? I’m enjoying being myself this week. This “Yup, been to the rodeo before, pardner” attitude about all this surprises the hell out of me. Somewhere along the way, I accidentally became this chick. This tough and “bring it” chick I always sort of wanted to be and was working toward being I’ve, like, accidentally become HER.
Yup.
I’m fucking loving it, too. I’ve worked hard for this moment of calm. This day of auspicious weirdness. I’ve worked real fucking hard.
So. I want to write. But I can’t.
Here, take this virtual smile 🙂 as a consolation prize for checking out this posting.
Better luck next time, sailor.
Monthly Archives: March 2010
And Then There Was Change
I was informed of my layoff yesterday.
Wednesday will be my last day, until enough work returns, or the company is forced into harder decisions.
Kudos to the bosses, we’ve had an inkling this might happen. I’ve been grilling them weekly to see if changes were happening, but there has been no news, which was bad news. But what can you do?
Unlike any time in the past, I used this foreknowledge to spend a little money investing in my writing — ink cartridges and a new cabinet so my desk is now 3 inches lower — a long story, but long story short is, I was getting migraines from writing/working, and hope it’s no longer the case.
Normally, something big like a layoff comes down, I panic and tell myself I can’t justify that spending, and I operate from a place of fear. This time, I just came up with a cheaper bare-minimum plan, and told myself it’s not optional — it’s about investing in myself.
Migraines don’t make good writing. And I’m too much a “writer” to not be good about it.
Now that I have some time to write in between the requisite job-searching, it’s obviously a priority.
I’m hoping I get called back to my job in a couple months or even by the fall. I know it’ll be tight and hard living, but I’ve been through this before and impressed the shit out of myself, so maybe it’s time to prove we only get better as we age.
There’s a difference now from back then — I now recognize I’ve suffered from mental illness, and live with difficult ADHD. I can, and do, learn new jobs, but I need to find the right fit for me, not just any job. I need the right kind of employers, work environment, and schedule.
Knowing this means I’m empowered, not a victim, by those challenges. I’m better off than most people; I know what I really need for success.
I’d rather return to my company, who’ve become like family over the years, who I trust and can approach about nearly anything, and who place the same value on life-over-work as all the employees do. Our schedules have been flexible, they accommodate the little things that pop up and would be better done with a shorter workday or a day off.
I’ve never made much. I’ve made $18 an hour while my friends have all being going on to bigger, better, amazing things, and I’ve been scraping by.
But in the time I’ve scraped by, with my work allowing me to flex my days and hours on a weekly basis, I’ve managed to:
- overcome years of intensive rehab after almost dying a couple times
- fought (and I think overcome) once-frequent forays into dark depressions and other mental illnesses
- gotten through a number of tight layoffs with nearly no help from anyone despite my challenges and lack of savings
- not only beat but beat into a bloody goddamned stump my writer’s block
- rediscovered myself
- gained 40, then lost 70 pounds
- conquered many fears
- discovered my inner athlete
- and done a million other things, while never making the money to have others help me accomplish it easier
Scraping by the last three years let me improve myself more than most people accomplish in a decade or more, and almost all done by myself.
I have constantly been trying to heal or get over something — be it a physical or mental issue — and my work, my pseudo-family, has pretty much been there and made it possible, as possible as they could and still make an income, through it all.
Knowing myself now, in my post-head-injury, post-depression, post-unhappy life, I KNOW I can’t just work for anyone. I know I can’t just waltz into any company and “make the best” of it. It will tear me to shreds. Mental illness is a real issue; me working in a negative, high-stress job with evil people is like making someone with lung cancer work in a restaurant that has smoking. You can TRY, but what’s the fucking point? It’s got “FAILURE” and “CATASTROPHE” stamped all over it.
Like when I worked at a place for 6 months in during 2007, with The Dragon Lady and her art school, ruling by terror and venom, poisoning me with her negative depression on a daily basis from seven feet away with no wall. Oh, lord. Never, ever again.
I spiralled close to suicidal working under her. I gained 20 pounds in 6 months. Then I quit, went back to my old film job, and they gave me a non-judgmental, supportive, flexible environment in which I’ve made the most progress of my life, changing EVERYTHING with no trainers, no financial advisers, no real therapists — just a supportive workplace that let me make myself a priority.
I’ve changed me, inside and out. I’ve so much more empathy and enthusiasm for life and others now. I’m such a better person. I’m not gonna die young — not from my health, anyhow. And work played a big part in giving me the control to make that happen.
And now the future of the company that gave me such a fantastic environment that encouraged my change & growth is in danger. It breaks my heart.
All because of stupid government and bad tax policies. What a tragedy.
None of us employees wants to work for other people, the bosses don’t want to work with new people. None of us is in it for the money, not even my bosses. All of us live lives of sacrifice and budgeting because the job lets us put our art, creativity, and private lives first. We don’t make a lot but we’re under no illusions what kind of people we work for, and that’s why we’ve stayed.
But the government doesn’t want us to stay anymore. They won’t match film industry tax credits from other provinces, and now some asshole in Ontario or California is doing my job, since domestic film production is down by 40%, and 50% of the workforce has been laid off.
So here I am. Four days left.
And a book to write.
And a newly-adjusted desk to write it at.
Looks like I know what I’m doing.
Unlike most people, when I write this book, it won’t be gathering dust. I won’t be sitting around micro-panicking over every word. There’ll come a time when I’m Ready.
I have NOTHING to lose from publication. NOTHING. Anyone I stand the chance of pissing off in my book has probably already been pissed off at me and either knows that’s part of knowing me and my unflinching-but-always-trustworthy honesty, OR they’re already not talking to me and there’s no skin off my ass if I maintain the status quo.
I’m a WRITER. Through and through. My friends know this. Anything’s on the table for me, but they also trust me to toe a line. We’re good.
More importantly than the trust I have for my friends? I write about all my failings and weaknesses and dreams and thoughts all the time. It’s not like I have to dig that much deeper. If I’ve already told you some of the embarrassing bad things in my life, then why not just keep that ball rolling?
So, the writing? Not too stressed about that part. Organizing? Ooh, yes, trickier. Some of the get-an-agent-get-a-deal stuff scares the shit out of me, I admit it.
But you know what? I’m at that point where languishing in obscurity scares me more.
I deserve better than this. I owe it to myself. I’m tough enough to take it, too.
I have nothing to lose — except my home. But I’ll figure it out, I’ll get by. Times like these, having no savings, living in one of the world’s most expensive cities, yeah, things get daunting.
It’s uncertainty. My job might be back in 6 weeks, I don’t know. I could spend the whole year writing and looking for a job that fits me, I don’t know.
Where will I be in 6 weeks? 6 months? Where’s life taking me?
I don’t know.
And there’s not a lot I can do about it.
Except adjust my desk and get to work. That’s one area I know I can make a difference in, accomplish something in. That’s one area I know. That’s a start.
_________________
SO, HEY:
If you know of any agents for memoirs, let me know — this process entirely daunts me, but I think my work is worthy. If you have an “in” for publishing and think you can help, I’m all ears. Drop me a line, scribecalledsteff (at) gmail (dot) com.
I’m working until next Wednesday, with paperwork to deal with for employment insurance next Thursday, but after that, I’ll be all over emails, etcetera. The book is in full-on “go” mode, and I hope to have three chapters done by early June, with a workable outline for pitches. So, please, spread the word with serious publishing contacts that there’s a little ball of awesome right over here that’s looking to explode onto the scene. Thanks!
Extreme Writing 101: Scab-picking
The phrase “Physician, heal thyself,” is meant to be a dry poke at the medical profession. You may be god-like, but you can’t fix yourself.
“Writer, heal thyself,” however, isn’t a poke, it’s a goal.
In talking with a friend over dinner last night, I likened writing to the extreme sports of the artistic world. No other art requires one to be so isolated and confrontational, so alone and challenged, for so long. It’s an endurance sport, one with almost impossible odds. You’ll never say everything you want to say, you’ll never be as complete as you want to be. You never get to the end and go, “WOW, look at what I did!” like when one climbs a mountain; you’re always flawed and missing a certain something.
There is no “right” way to write, unlike what the schools will tell you. Grammar isn’t even as rigid as you might think it to be. Schools of thought exist on many different grammatical styles. The most hotly contested wordgeek event of the year is the Oxford Dictionary releases annual new words. “Unfollow” was a big one last year.
There is a right way to do the writing, though.
From a place of truth. Honesty. Rawness. Forget what your mother taught you about picking at scabs. Rip that motherfucker off.
This book I’m writing is highly cathartic. I’m forcing myself to be more honest there than I am for you. It’s not that I’ve been afraid of sharing those truths with you… it’s just that I think it’s kinda like how women shouldn’t wear microskirts — don’t just give that away, honey.
You haven’t earned the right to know about my deepest, darkest passages. This needs to be a two-way street. Right now, I give to you, you take, I get nothing. But that’s the way of the blogging world.
In a year or two you’ll be able to buy your very own copy, and feed the belly of this beast. That’s when you earn it. And that’s not me being a bitch, that’s a brutal fiscal reality.
What, I’m supposed to eat idealism for breakfast? That’s how it works if I choose art, not ratrace? Really?
There’s not many things in this world that I love to do, am good at doing, and see myself wanting to do for the rest of my life. There’s nothing, actually — except writing. For that to happen, for me to pull these scabs, spend late nights staring in blackness at a cieling I can’t even see, as I think of topics I want to tear apart, I need to pay my rent.
At some point there enters into this a consciousness about you, my audience. I know you’re there. I can now engage in a monologue that’s both true to me, yet relatable for you.
It’s an interesting consciousness. An even more interesting exercise.
If I was in grade three, I’d simply explain it as: I find writing weird, and writing for an audience even weirder.
It’s something I know in my heart I’m very good at — but I see myself as being very good at writing the kind of thing I like reading; not necessarily “very good” at the craft as a whole. If I was GOOD, it would have to be harder for me, right?
Then again, I’ve never really tackled fiction. Who knows, right? But, still, I don’t follow traditional writing schools or all the Proper Things To Do. I’m not even very linear, I go all over the place. But nothing comes more comfortably for me in life than writing.
I was talking with writer friends about Twitter — they don’t follow me and I don’t know if they’ve even seen my Twitter stream, but I pepper the thing with one-liners. I’m all about the jokey stuff and scathing observations. And one says, “I don’t understand some people — how they just post all their best stuff, great one-liners. I mean, you could spend up to 60 minutes composing a single tweet…”
And I said nothing. I’ve never spent more than two minutes on a single tweet. Never! It just pops in my head and BOOM, there it is. There are so many areas in my life that DON’T work efficiently, though.
But there? Writing? It’s seldom a struggle, not anymore. For six years, I’d have better luck squeezing water from a rock than pushing out readable words, but once I found my way out of that writer’s block, I’ve never gone back.
At some point, you gotta figure out who’s the lion (the writing) and who’s the tamer (me), and then it’s all about remembering who’s in charge.
It’s my extreme sport. I’m always pushing to see what new thing I can say, what new button I can push. It’s what I really, really enjoy doing — whether you’re reading it or whether it’s gathering dust until it finds its way between covers or never sees the light of day. THAT’s my extreme sport. That’s where my life’s legacy will probably be found, in words I’ve cobbled together over decades and credos I’ve hammered out one phrase at a time.
There are people who go their who life without ever knowing who they are.
I may be broke, facing losing my job in the coming days, unlucky in love, always rehabbing, waging battles with ADHD, and any number of other things…
But I know exactly who I am, who I want to be, what’s important to me in life, and what I cannot live without doing — what’s as important to me as the air I breathe.
Writing makes me one of the richest people I know.
Hopefully I can take that figurative statement and make it literal in a “Holy shit, we’re capitalists?” kind of way over the next year — but not at the risk of losing my soul or my self.
Some prices can’t be unpaid. That, too, people can go a lifetime without learning.
Like I said, I’m one of the richest people I know.
The Struggle of Creativity
Life is so hard sometimes.
It’s hard when you know how long your journey is, and it’s harder still when you’re honest about the hills you face.
I’m having one of those “hard” mornings.
Nothing’s really going on. There’s nothing new I know today that I didn’t know yesterday. There’s no horribly adverse turn of events.
It was a hard weekend that required I swallow my pride and accept that there are an awful lot of areas in my life that are entirely outside of my control right now.
It’s times like these I hate it when people talk about positive visualization or the like, because I know how little I can affect a few things that can be monster bad for me. However, what I can change is my reaction to that knowledge.
Right now, I’m facing the possibility that my company may have to do layoffs. It’s in the air, but I love that my employers are so open with us, so we can plan ahead. We’re just facing the economic reality that’s the status quo in much of Vancouver’s film industry right now. It’s been a weird winter. Is it the dollar hurting our business? Did Olympics road closures create too many routing headaches for shoot coordinators and other cities seem more appealing for short-term shooting projects? No one really knows, but we’ll know soon & everyone’s being positive.
For now, I can make sure bills are paid, life is simplified, and I’m careful about where my fiscal priorities lie.
I’m using it as an opportunity.
An opportunity to adopt better spending habits and try to think of ways to eat healthier, faster, cheaper, and fresher, to have quicker and more energetic meals, so less time is spent in the kitchen and more time is spent creating. If I have to be a domestic goddess less, then I’ll work more on my book.
If I have to be frugal, I’ll be frugal in an attempt to figure out how to cut more work out of my life over the long-term, so I can get through my book writing as quick as possible.
Because, ultimately, I believe in my talent and ability… even if I’m scared as fuck about writing a memoir about ME and having to sustain YOUR interest for some 280 pages or so.
I’ve turned the page on the paralyzing fear. Friday, I spoke with a woman who seems to be instilling herself into my life in the role of a “mentor”. I don’t even know her name — just what she goes by on Twitter. You don’t need to know THAT name. But she knows her writing shit, man. I’ve not done all the fancy classes on writing, but I’ve read WRITERS writing about the craft of writing and how they successfully do what they do, and I know she’s saying all the right stuff. The systems she’s helping me with should prove infinitely valuable.
Me, I don’t give a fuck what the schools are teaching — I want practical systems that work in the constraints of MY talent & craft. That’s what lady’s dishing out, too — pragmatism that suits a little Steff we know.
But she told me I sound like one of those writers for whom it all comes so easily that I think, “UGH, I can’t POSSIBLY be good at this — shouldn’t it be MUCH harder than this if, you know, I were churning out anything with worth at all?”
And I laughed and laughed and laughed. “Exactly. Yep. Nail, meet head. BANG on.”
Because it’s completely true. You’d be completely wrong if you thought I spent much time writing these posts. They seldom take longer than an hour, or even an hour. I can really turn out something along the lines of 1,500 to 2,000 decent words in an hour, on most good days.
It wasn’t always that way. I was creatively blocked for six years. I just had jack shit to say. I’m not sure I really believe in creative block now… I sort of go there sometimes but I realize it’s not that I’m creatively blocked, it’s that I’m mentally cluttered. It’s all about focus. And how much you’re willing to force through the obstacles for the meaty, hurty bits under it all.
Like the body recoils the instant before an anticipated injury, so too does the brain in the act of creating. When you think it’s going to hurt most, the heart of it moves a bit away from you. You have to really want it in order to take it. Your choice. Your brain will interfere, but like getting a needle, you have to remind it that this won’t really hurt — not for long, anyhow.
And I’ve taught myself to do that. I can reveal some pretty incredibly raw stuff when I’m willing to accept two things: one) it can’t hurt me anymore and two) you probably kinda know where I’m coming from, so it’s better that one of us have the guts to address it than the elephant stay sitting in the corner, right?
For now, I’m fighting to get out of my own corner. I think this next year or so is going to be the best but also the hardest year of my life. I want it that bad… I’m willing to make every sacrifice I need to make, because I’m fucking tired of getting in the way of myself.
Yeah. Writing comes naturally. Yeah. I sometimes take it for granted. But, yeah, I need it as much as I need air.
I would rather write words than organize words. I’d rather be picking at emotional scabs and digging through the existential trash that is my past than shuffling paper and figuring out scene orders. I do writing, I don’t construct it.
Inside, though, I know I have the ability to do both. Doesn’t mean I’m underestimating the hike it’s gonna get to climb those mountains, though.
Whatchoo Want, Willis?
So, good people of Bloggerville, we the bosses of this here “Smutty” ward want to know just what wingdings I should install on this blog by tomorrow afternoon?
Like, “share” and “tweet” buttons, obviously. I’m gonna be so 2007 in no time at all. But what else, man? What else should I put here to make your experience so much more sparkly than it is now?
SPEAK! I have help arriving at high noon for eggs and blog updating. In that order. There’s bacon, too. No, you can’t come. But I love you. Now speak. 😀
Of Monsters and Writers and Closets, OH MY
Heady morning on a beautiful sunny Thursday, but it’s my Friday afore a three-day weekend to be crammed with writing so I get the big bookwritin’ ball rolling fast.
I’m realizing the magnitude of the hill I’ll have to climb to write this book, more and more. But it’s okay. I’m also realizing I’m pretty tough and I’ve been through worse, I imagine.
I think the fact I’ve been so balls-out open about my life for the last couple years is because I’ve been preparing for this moment for a long time.
I haven’t done a lot of writing classes in my life. I’m not a “trained” writer, per se, aside from a journalism degree. About this extent of it is, I took creative writing in high school, and a semester of “how to write a novel” that was taught by Maureen Medved, author of The Tracey Fragments.
I’m far from an academic writer. Technically, I’m flawed six ways to Sunday. I break a lot of rules, I don’t care about who’s reading, and I don’t want to take your eights-weeks-to-success writing course, thank you kindly. I read books on writing by writers who don’t believe in writers spending their lives being taught what to write or getting workshopped to a creative death. Editors exist for a reason. Soul can’t be edumacated into you.
Maureen Medved told us one thing that resonated for a long time: Every writer should write a book, then throw it out. The first book was filled with the self-obsessed drivel which no reader should be forced to endure.
I give you my blogs.
There. There’s your self-obsessed drivel. Pushing 4,000 posts, more than 2 million words, the equivalent of 8 or so books.
Everyone’s favourite social philosopher, Malcolm Gladwell, says 10,000 hours are needed before you’re an “expert” in any discipline. Yeah? Okay, then. Might be done on that count, too. No school? No. Diligence, passion, willingness to work, and a sheer love of doing it? Check, check, check, and check.
Funny thing is, as “open” as I’ve been, there’s so much more in my life I’ve never written about for public consumption. Like, about three decades of it. Look for postings on my childhood or my schooling, you’ll probably find 10 or less. Out of thousands.
I’m not sure what that says to you… but I sure as fuck know what it tells me.
One of the exercises every bookwriter should do is to create a timeline. In fact, I think it’s a great emotional exercise for just about anyone. Want to know where your issues are? Reflect on every year of your life, detailing what pivotal events you remember in that year, then move on to the next.
I did that last Sunday.
Do you know what I’ve written about since? The first time I ever saw the sun rise, when I was about 8 and camping on the ocean at summer camp, which was a huge thing I don’t want to explain to you. (Buy the book! HAH.) Why I never liked to exercise as a kid. Why I want to learn to surf. An insult a kid said to me when I was in grade 7. Things I’ve never written about before.
It’ll be an interesting ride. I can’t believe the mental resonance touching on those events had for me. We get into the habit of thinking we know all our building blocks, but sometimes I think we underestimate the resonance the small events and moments a life’s timeline doesn’t reveal — the fragments we often don’t realize lie under larger shards, you know what I mean?
Two parts wow, one part shazam, and you got a whole lotta past life goin’ on, man.
Starting tonight, I have to do what I’ve dreaded for a really, really long time:
Re-read everything I’ve ever written.
The plan for tonight was to go see a movie by myself, but now I’ll be staying home and reading my old work, copying and pasting relevant bits. One by one by one.
I don’t want to open that door to my past.
Going back there? Not a fun thing. But it’s what one does when one writes a memoir, no?
It’s time for a bottle of wine, a nice meal, and a night of pretending I’m reading about someone else’s sadly troubled but funny and insightful life. I’ve come a long way in those years. I’m hoping the re-reading leaves me celebrating that, not regretting the struggles, but you never know where some of those doors lead.
Oh, Aldous Huxley, you and your fucking psychic metaphors.
Maybe I’ll even LISTEN to The Doors while I open those doors, and later I can read a little Huxley and get all pretentious or something.
But don’t think I’m looking forward to it.
I’ve been avoiding this for 18 months. Literally.
It’s funny, how much our past can scare us. Like the monsters in the closet really have teeth instead of being the big bad but harmless CGI creations they really are. Just ask Sulley and Mike — monsters-schmonsters.
My past terrifies me.
Not because I think my mother’s gonna die all over again or the worst of the head injury will return or anything like that. It terrifies me just because I know what a mental depression feels like. I’ve been there, I’ve lived it. I’ve experienced an unbeatable chemical depression. I know how intangible these things really are. Once you’ve had a mental illness of any kind, the mystifying power of the human brain never really escapes you.
Tripping down memory lane, indeed. More like catapulting down it.
Some little part of me is terrified if I open that door, it doesn’t close again.
Illogical, I know. Improbable? I agree.
And yet the 11-year-old somewhere inside me says it’s not about logic and probability — it’s about MONSTERS, DUH.
I don’t kid myself that this fear makes me special. I’m pretty aware this is probably a feeling most of us relate to, so I don’t mind sharing it with you.
The difference is, I don’t get to ignore it anymore. I can’t put it off anymore. Tonight, the door opens.
Thar be monsters? Soon I’ll know.
RetroSteff: Why 40% of Women Don't Masturbate
When this blog first began, for its first year or so, it was all sex or relationships that I was writing about. Most of the time, anyhow, as I kept my “personal” writing on another blog. Somewhere along the way, I gave up separating the two.
But as I’m getting into writing my book, something’s got to give. As I said yesterday, I’m pretty sure y’all ain’t read my 4,000 postings on my two blogs, so I’m going to use this opportunity to help you find the ones worth reading on the days when I ain’t got time to write.
I figure that, you know, in a smirky tip of the hat to my efforts, I should at least make the first retro posting about masturbation and self-love. Continue reading
The New Way Things Work
Hi. I’m Steff. I’ll be your… book author?
Hmm! Interrrrreehhhssting.
Yeah, okay, so I’m getting off my ass and writing that book I’ve always dreamed I’d write. I’m being ballsy and telling EVERYONE I’m doing it so that a) people understand the changes that need to transpire for me to reach that life dream, and b) so I have the pressure to deliver it and stay on point.
Changes. Yes, back to that.
Everyone in my life needs to understand massive changes need to happen for me to achieve what I want. Continue reading
Social Media: What Not To Do 101
I’ve pissed a few people off on Twitter this morning.
Even people I like and have considered buds. It happens.
And, no, this isn’t an apology, because I think offense was either a) wrongly taken or b) deserved, depending who’s doing the saying.
I ranted about business-types and how keen they are to ladle praise onto their colleagues or companions, but how little genuine thanks gets expressed for the Little Things.
Like anything sandwiched into 140 words, a lot gets painted in broad strokes, and people get hurt, and I’m sorry for some of the offense I’m sure is being felt right now. But I don’t think it makes my point any less valid or needing of saying.
Continue reading
The Piano Has Been Drinking*
So too has the blogger.
And, boy, has my body decided it’s had enough.
I became social again last year, which effectively doubled the amount I’d been drinking. It became far too regular, and had it not been for the drinking, I’d probably have lost more weight instead of just having maintained my numbers for a year now.
The drinking escalated last fall. More this spring. A good three or four nights a week would be 2-3 drinks, maybe more often than that if it was a busy period.
Just how often became a significant realization this week. Continue reading