My Doomsayer and Me
I’m back from the dead and from possessed dwarves to Linkedin, I have some things on my mind.
Writing Again
This is a test to see if I still have the will to write. It’s been seven months since my last article. The muse stayed with me for a month, then left like a summer romance as the leaves turned crisp and began to wither in warm pigment. Imposter syndrome crept in. I was writing like a madman, then one day — nothing. The next day followed suit. One day I was Alexander Hamilton writing The Federalist Papers; the next, I had an irrational fear of my keyboard. The keys became lava.
A Fey Mood
My writing experience feels similar to the game Dwarf Fortress. In the game, a “fey mood” occurs when a dwarf is possessed by the spirit of a legendary crafter. During this time, the dwarf speaks only the names of the materials it needs, repeating them in a trance-like chant until the required items are brought forth.
Once the materials are gathered, the dwarf begins working, producing an artifact — a masterpiece that could be anything from a sword to a wooden door. If the dwarf cannot acquire the materials, however, they go mad, often succumbing to thirst or becoming violent.
But if successful, the artifact is coveted for centuries, and the dwarf, no matter its age, will live out its life as a “Legendary” crafter. I remember a 7-year-old dwarf boy who became a Legendary Bonecarver. I was in awe. The children always amaze you the most in Dwarf Fortress.
I never thought too deeply about the fey mood mechanic until just now, staring into this window of purgatory — the blank screen of Medium’s writer tool.
I’m late! I’m late! I’m late!
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Through this window, down the rabbit hole we go. Let’s discover the meaning of the word “fey.” (Yes, this is a stream of consciousness; I don’t know where it’s going.)
According to Merriam-Webster, “fey” can refer to someone who appears strange or otherworldly, often with a supernatural or fairy-like quality. It can also mean someone marked by a sense of impending death or doom. Historically, in Scottish usage, it described someone fated to die. The term has evolved to include both magical and eccentric qualities.
The World Outside
I feel like my life ended when COVID-19 started. I wasn’t afraid of the virus — I took my mask off when most people did — but I lost my path career-wise. I tried to adapt and didn’t recover. I’m not agoraphobic — I go out — but I’ve isolated myself, alone with my own fears and insecurities, creating a monstrous job gap.
Out of my sense of doom came a survival-driven adrenaline rush to start writing and finally chase my dream of becoming a professional writer. A blade of light pierced the darkness, but light travels fast — too fast. I’m grateful for that brief flash, but I wish there were more of it.
Fey February — A suspension in golden light.
February was that flash. I was suspended in it just long enough to remember to breathe, like some divine intelligence hit the pause button on the warm-breathed, long-bearded, decrepit doomsayer that lingers over my shoulder every day, saying, “Are you seeing this shit?”
I thought, if I die penniless and nameless, at least I’ll have left something behind for humanity, even if it’s just a Grammarly-washed, lukewarm article about a famous painter or a tribute to a god of old. It’s not the cure for cancer, but it’s not nothing.
The Smell of Noodles and Steaming Streets
But then I started applying to writing jobs on LinkedIn. Most didn’t respond, and the ones that did felt like scams. I disdain LinkedIn and how employers make you feel obligated to have one. I scroll through it and just feel hopelessness and despair. It’s like the simping people do at their jobs, but they’re doing it for free — almost as if they enjoy it.
The corporate landscape feels like a dirty cyberpunk street full of electric snake oil salesmen and false prophets on soapboxes, promising to make you better and more fulfilled in your career.
If I had anything in my wallet while walking down that street, I’d keep one hand on it at all times. But it’s not just your money these people want — it’s your adoration, your data, and, in some cases, your identity.
Mom, stop! You’re going to get cloned!
Scam job postings plague job sites in 2024. I recently visited my mother, and within a minute of her being on the phone, I overheard her saying, “I don’t think you’re with Medicare! They don’t ask me for my social!” I started shouting, “HANG UP THE PHONE!” which she did shortly after.
I explained that scammers just need three seconds of your voice to clone it and use it to harm you. That’s the world we live in now.
It’s a Jungle on Fire Out There
Even dating apps are full of bot accounts and people trying to sell OnlyFans. Everyone in my life is nervous about the future of the United States and the world.
You can’t trust an unknown number on your phone, you can’t trust a certain percentage of job listings, and every day I see ads on YouTube of a woman telling me I can’t trust my partner. She’s pushing some app that tracks where they are and implies they’re cheating. Blah, blah, blah.
People are eating dirt from Whole Foods. Again, the ghostly Doomsayer’s hot breath tickles my earlobe as he whispers, “Are you seeing this shit?” His gray-spotted hands clutch a withered and gnarled oak staff, his robes reeking of mothballs and the sour smell of morning breath after a night without flossing. That guy’s the worst, but it doesn’t make him wrong.
I’ve come to a revelation while writing this. A permission slip to myself from myself that says “Just because I can see the writing on the wall doesn’t mean I shouldn’t write too.” Fey moods kill dwarves, but humans are known for their resilience. I feel human today, how about you?
