I'm pretty sure I have ADHD. I realize self-diagnosing from Facebook reels probably isn't the most reliable method of arriving at a medical conclusion, but the symptoms certainly fit. Even the fact that I've lived my whole life without realizing I have ADHD has a perfectly good explanation. It seems I've spent my whole life masking and — according to Facebook — the ability to mask goes out the window at menopause.
With undiagnosed ADHD, menopause and middle age circling like vultures, it's probably no wonder I've been trying to reinvent myself.
Unfortunately, the reinvention process hasn't exactly gone according to plan. I've quit my job at the local newspaper so I can focus on other things, but I'm still clocking around 140 miles a day in a school bus driving a rural bus route.
I'm still a wannabe homesteader. Take, for example, my recent adventures in winemaking.
That's right. I'm at it again.
I was corking a batch of apricot wine when I managed to injure my finger badly enough to require seven stitches. Seven. Apparently, making homemade wine is not without its occupational hazards. I'm not sure what the official safety guidelines are for amateur winemakers, but I'm beginning to think protective equipment should include more than just an apron and a willingness to experiment. I know for certain that I'm giving that corker a bad review on Amazon.
Then there was the butter incident.
I recently received the gift of some raw milk. My mind immediately started exploring all the things I could do with it. The first, and easiest, was to skim the cream and make some homemade butter.
Homemade butter sounds wonderfully wholesome and domestic. There's something satisfying about turning cream into butter, especially when you start thinking about all the things you can make with it, or daydream about baking fresh bread and topping it with fresh butter.
Unfortunately, I can never focus on just one thing at a time. I made the mistake of leaving the stand mixer unattended while I researched thermophilic cheesemaking. A loud splashing sound alerted me that the process might be farther along than I thought. I went back to the kitchen to discover that, yes, the butter had formed. So had its byproduct, buttermilk. While the butter was a wonderful, yellow ball in the bowl, the stand mixer's motion had redecorated the kitchen with buttermilk.
There was buttermilk everywhere. On the counter, around the mixer, and in places I still don't understand. I suppose the lesson is that some kitchen appliances require adult supervision. Or perhaps the lesson is that I should not attempt to multitask.
That would be a reasonable conclusion, except multitasking seems to be one of my defining characteristics. I have approximately 47 things I want to do, 12 things I am actively working on, and at least three more ideas competing for my attention before I've finished any of the first 47.
Which brings me to another reinvention project: rediscovering fiction writing.
For years, I've had stories rattling around in my head. I've always loved creating characters, developing plots and imagining all the ways a story can unfold. Somewhere along the way, though, life, work, family and all the responsibilities that come with being a grown-up pushed fiction writing onto the back burner.
Lately, I've been trying to find my way back.
Part of that journey has involved Pocket FM, where I've been developing two very different serialized fiction projects: Captive Heart and Ring of the Jade Dragon.
Captive Heart has been an opportunity to revisit my love of romance, suspense and complicated characters. It's a story that has required plenty of plotting, twists, emotional turmoil and the occasional moment when I wonder how on earth I'm going to get my characters out of the mess I've created for them.
Then there's Ring of the Jade Dragon, which takes me into entirely unfamiliar territory. Fantasy, systems, dragons, revenge, supernatural abilities and all the possibilities that come with building a completely different world. I have to admit that I feel a little bit in over my head--and maybe I'm just not that into it--but it's been fun to stretch my imagination and explore a genre that lets me break just about every rule of ordinary reality.
And because two stories aren't enough, stay tuned for an upcoming shapeshifter fantasy, Immune to You. It will be a doozy, I promise.
The interesting thing about writing fiction again is how much I enjoy getting lost in it. I can spend hours thinking about a character's motivations, working through a plot problem or imagining what might happen next. Sometimes the story practically writes itself. Other times, I can stare at a paragraph for an hour and wonder why I ever thought I knew how to put words together.
But that's part of the process, I suppose. Rediscovering something you love doesn't necessarily mean picking up exactly where you left off. Sometimes it means learning how to do it all over again, only this time with a few more years, a little more life experience and considerably more distractions.
I'm beginning to suspect that reinvention in middle age isn't about suddenly becoming a completely different person. Maybe it's about giving yourself permission to revisit the things you loved before life got so busy. It's about trying new things, making mistakes, occasionally requiring stitches and accepting that not every project is going to turn out the way you imagined.
I may not have figured out how to keep the buttermilk in the mixer, cork wine without injuring myself or convince my brain to concentrate on one thing at a time. I haven't even ruled out the possibility that Facebook has correctly identified something about me that I've spent decades overlooking.
But I'm writing again. I'm making things. I'm experimenting. I'm creating stories and occasionally making a spectacular mess in the kitchen.
And maybe that's what reinvention looks like.
Although, if anyone has suggestions for a less hazardous hobby, I'm willing to listen.
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