28. A Hero Climaxes

I’m studying the art of the hero’s journey while waking to soft sun careening through my window, warming the grey fur of my cat named Blue. His journey of heroism is leaving a tailless rat in my bathroom. That’s Blue’s source of pride. My source of pride? Let’s go back to that careening sun. It keeps me in bed far longer than I should stay because the early-morning banana-leaf greens go well with the songbirds and roosters waking the day. It’s my slice of paradise in a world designed to race rats.

I aim for a slower pace, but my hero’s journey has the cadence of a heartbeat. It often quickens, but never pauses. Whether I like it or not, I’m a go-getter. I go get that money four days a week so the other three I can be a do-better — not in the self-punishing sense, but in that distinctly feminine way of always finding room to refine.

The latest room for refinement: my writing studio. As of December 1st, 2025, I now have a space of my own — a generous neighbor offered her unused room, essentially a glorified shipping container, to house my creative energy, my books and doubts and scribbled outlines. A hundred yards from my bedroom, but galaxies away in purpose.

I want to do better at pantsing — writer’s slang for winging it, for putting words to paper with no predetermined destination. I did that for my first draft when all I had to go off were two instructions: “Write a book about dragons and a boy named Balisan.” Five years later, I now have themes and arcs and magic systems and a living mythos that all deserve consideration. So I’m more deliberate these days. I’m plotting from my climax backward.

Manifestation works the same way — which is probably why the process feels spiritual, cue the handpan and Native-American flute played by a blonde, Cali-born dude named Arcadian. You anchor into the moment, dream big, and let the future tug you forward.

And it makes me think of a girl I once knew who used to manifest exclusively during orgasms. Like, climaxing her way toward her destiny. Which leads me to wonder… does the last climax manifest the next? Does intention linger in the body the way story does on a page? And was Vyasa’s EP playing in the background — and if not, should it have been?

Anyway — this particular hero’s journey of mine is celebrating Fall’s harvest, quite literally. The writing studio is a massive gift to my evolving arc. I can already hear the suffering echo off the walls as I slog through notes, get distracted by nothing, and eventually surrender to the couch in melodramatic defeat — probably cry a little. Definitely mope. And then, in the most predictable twist, the tiniest clue floats past my peripheral vision, some invisible force strikes my match, and suddenly I’m on fire again.

That’s the real climax of creation anyway — not the big moment at the end, but the unpredictable ignition in the middle of despair. The spark you didn’t see coming.

This new studio is my hearth, a place where my embers will be tended ritualistically, or at least routinely. My temple, my office, my therapy, all in one — blessedly separate from where I sleep. Its whole purpose is to hold the heat of my imagination. To be the container (fitting, since it’s literally a shipping container) for my creative river, the banks that shape its flow. And it’s within walking distance from home, which means it’s infinitely easier to show up and tend the flames.

In this space, I’ll keep studying Campbell and listening for what Anastasia might whisper into the roots of my world. I’ll wonder about the myths that shaped my parents, and the ones I’m shaping now. And then I’ll face the blank page, toss all the outlines aside, put on my big-girl pants, and write anyway — because even the greatest mythological cats never scripted the moment they became legend.

-Jess

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