Sitting here on New Year’s Eve, I’m trying to find my way into this year-in-review blog post, and coming up with nothing. I mean, what even was that? Well, I guess that’s one way to start: with the clunky, horrible opening paragraph 2025 deserves. Oh well, at least an actual human wrote it.
The year wasn’t all bad. Just mostly. I won’t dwell on the wider-world hellscape stuff. I got into that in “The Point of Saying Anything” and “Everything is Broken” and my reflections on The Shock Doctrine. If 2025 didn’t expose how the miserable, specifically American trifecta of politics, technology, and economics is driving the world over a cliff, nothing will. That toxic cloud loomed over every moment, and I haven’t got the energy or skill to tackle it here.
But the personal stuff isn’t that much easier. Low-grade mental and physical health issues. Unexpected, drastic changes at the day job. Feeling my writing-career dreams continue to deteriorate. Watching sociopathic technocrats try to automate away the best of human endeavor — creativity — while forcing us all to keep the dehumanizing stuff about life: the debt, the stolen time, the grinding toil and relentless wealth extraction. And, of course, grieving the loss of my dad, who quietly demonstrated all that was good about the creative life, a life the world seems determined to make impossible.
So yeah, it was a tough year. I’d lost my grip on it by mid-January, and it only got more and more slippery as it went. I got trapped in my head, and forgot how to people, and hid from the world. Most of the world, anyway.
But, again, it wasn’t all bad. And not just because — here comes the usual caveat — I have less to complain about than most. My story “Phantom Agency” got published at Sunday Morning Transport, my first sale in five years. Fatigue and stress notwithstanding, I managed the energy to read and watch and listen and think, and spun it into over 65,000 words of reviews and personal writing, here at the blog and in the newsletter. Jenn’s stunning picture book Seven Ways Through the Woods came out, and if only more people could internalize its beautiful message. Our little corner of Portland is a cozy sanctuary, and our elderly cats Oslo and Finley remain a joy. I did periodically get out to see good friends, here in town and in Seattle and at the Rainforest Writers Retreat, and all of them raised my spirits and reminded me there’s still good in the world. And while the circumstances weren’t great, all that travel home to visit my parents in New York resulted in a lot of quality time — deeper connection with my mom and dad, and nostalgic experiences in my old stomping grounds.
No doubt about it: the world kicked my ass in 2025. I was navigating the five stages of grief on multiple fronts simultaneously. Supposedly, at the end of that journey is acceptance, and in recent weeks I’ve seen glimmers of that peace on the horizon. With luck, I can roll up my sleeves next year and take the fight back to the world. For those of you who have reached out, followed along, boosted me up, or lent me strength this year, I really appreciate it, and hope that I have been able to return it in kind, even in some small way. For those of you still reading, thanks for being here, and here’s hoping for better times ahead.
