My newsletter muses about mental health and life, shares fiction too out there for primetime, and contemplations about whatever the fuck I want. Read more on my About page or, you know…
Happiness.
I feel like I unlocked it on April 2019. And what did happiness look like during that time? Simple. It was time spent writing my fictional books (one book, really, which was Void), sticking to my strict exercise routine (my goals constantly change but it is so important for me to keep my body and mind healthy), and traveling.
Life was great. From April 2019 to February 2022 I stuck to my strict schedule. Or, better yet, my “happy life” schedule. I’d wake up in the morning, exercise for two hours (maybe three if I felt a little cray cray), shower, and travel to my favorite cafe or bookstore to work on Void, striving to reach my word count goal for the day. Sometimes, if I was ahead of my word count goal, I’d treat myself and travel further in order to explore and discover new places to write my book. When I’d start to feel a little burned out, or when I’d feel the strong urge to travel further and longer, I’d devote and invest a week on a road trip.
I wouldn’t write during my road trip. I wouldn’t work. I promised myself I wouldn’t. I promised myself that I would enjoy myself. That I would enjoy the beauty of Dolce far niente: pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness. It was difficult to do it. To rest. To put aside my strong and instinctual need to work and write but through time and constant road trips, I did it. I fucking did it. I learned to enjoy the beauty of living life. Of savoring each precious and sacred moment, no matter how big or small.
Flash forward to February 2022
My “happy life schedule” has been altered again (it had been altered during the time I self-published my first book, To Tame a Dame, and a couple of times after that). Void was finished, edited by a professional, and ready to embark on the traditional publishing grind (forming a query, seeking a literary agent, then, seeking a publishing house to release the book).
I thought I would be able to dedicate one week to querying, and the next to writing my other fictional book (it’s what I did with To Tame a Dame and Void, switching from business mode to writing mode), but I learned that the traditional grind was much different than the self-publishing one.
How? you ask.
Well, after I’d learned the querying grind, the process of seeking a literary agent was boring. So fucking boring. I’d go to the website of a literary agent house, scroll through dozens and dozens of agents, read their bio, and craft a personalized query. Sometimes the agents wouldn’t have a bio, so I’d have to use query tracker or other sources like it to do my research on a particular agent.
The point being, the process to seek a literary agent was meticulous, repetitive, and soul-destroying work. I hated it. Fucking hated it! Why? Because I saw it — see it — no different than accounting work. It’s not creative. It doesn’t get my mind riled up and excited. And it feels like what I’m doing doesn’t matter. Like I’m not making any progress.
But you have to do it, Diego, I hear you guys saying. It’s important. In life, even when you’re doing what you love, you’re going to have to do stuff you don’t like to do.
You’re right, my sweet and wise and precious subscribers. You’re so right. In life, you’re going to have to do shit you don’t like, even when you’re working towards something you love to do.
I told myself these very words with every single query I sent. “It’s important,” I’d say through clenched teeth as I groaned and formed a fist, wishing to flip the table in front of me as I sat at a cafe. “It’s. Im-por-tant.”
Suffice it to say, because I hated the query grind with a grave passion, I wasn’t able to balance my time querying and writing my next book. My query time intervened and soon replaced my writing time. So, from February 2022 up to August 2022, I spend my weekdays querying like a madman.
Fuck, man, sometimes it would take me four fucking hours to find one literary agent I loved. And sometimes, I wouldn’t be able to find the “right” literary agent in a day. I hated that. Really fucking hated that. But, I wouldn’t give in and send a query letter to any agent just so I could feel like I was making progress. I’d be doing myself a disservice if I gave in. My goal was to find the “right” agent. Someone who not only fell in love with my writing but was willing to fight to get it published. I wouldn’t compromise. I wouldn’t settle for less, no matter what.
Flashforward to September 2022
After my querying journey, which you can read more about here, I was left feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted. I had gone six months without working on my next fictional book and I was unhappy. So, according to my “happy life” schedule, the cure to get me out of that unhappy state was to get back to my “normal” routine.
I did. And, it worked.
I was happy.
For a bit…
Writing my fictional books gives my life meaning and purpose. It makes me feel like what I’m doing means something not just for myself but for the world. The thought of my books having a profound effect on just one soul floods my heart with so much warmth. So much happiness.
Yes, as I work on my fictional books, there are bad days. Days where I feel like I’m not making any progress. Days where I can’t figure out a way to move the plot forward. Or end a chapter. Or a scene. And these bad days, fuck, they’re tough. So fucking tough and exhausting but… I always push through and overcome them. And when I do, when I finish a difficult scene, or chapter, or fuck, when I typed in the final words of Void, my God, I’m getting goosebumps just thinking back on it. It felt good. So fucking good to finish something I spent years on. To finish something that has the potential to have a profound effect on that one soul.
With that said, when I finished a difficult scene for my next book one October afternoon and I didn’t get that “good and happy” feeling, I knew something was terribly wrong. My mind went on “RED ALERT! RED ALERT! RED ALERT!” as it desperately tried to find the source of my unhappiness.
Here’s a silly depiction of my state of mind during that time…
After about ten minutes or so, I found the source of my unhappiness: my financial state.
From 2018 to late 2022…
… My financial state stayed the same. I work with my dad, who owns a cleaning business, and I worked part-time (it’s actually less than part-time), making a generous amount of money. Working these hours allowed me to prioritize my writing. My happiness.
So, when I finished that difficult scene one October afternoon and didn’t get that “good and happy” feeling I always do working on my fictional books, I deduced that the cause was my financial state. I figured it was time to break away from my dad’s business and create something on my own by writing outside the fictional world.
From early November 2022 to February 2023, I explored different avenues to make an income on my own. I tried Fiverr, Upwork, and ProBlogger, attempting to get my freelance portfolio going as I searched for remote writing jobs on LinkedIn and a couple of other sites.
I wasn’t able to find any writing job I liked (all that was available was in the healthcare, financial, and technical fields, fields I have zero interest in).
Fiverr, Upwork, and ProBlogger left me feeling no different than I felt when I worked as a freelancer in early 2018: like what I was writing about didn’t matter.
I wanted my writing to matter. And I wanted to write about whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, however I wanted. With this conclusion, I started…
… This Substack
I figured if I was my own boss, I’d be able to write non-fictional content I love for a long time. And, for the past few weeks, I have. I have loved the content I’ve written about. It made me happy (nowhere near the degree that fictional writing makes me feel), and it felt like what I was doing mattered.
However, what it failed to do was pass the longevity test.
Fiction is my life. My pride. My joy. My purpose. It’s something I can do for a long time, not stopping, ever. Fuck, I did it with Void. I worked on it from 2018 to 2022 without stopping. Sure, I took rests and vacations every now and then, but whenever I’d return from my vacation, I’d feel rejuvenated and excited to get back to my fictional worlds.
I have ideas for future books. So many ideas. Ideas I’ve outlined. Ideas I’ve dreamt about. Ideas that make me lose sleep as I imagine them in my head in the dead of night. Ideas I know I will manifest in the future, thus passing the longevity test.
The free non-fiction content I’ve released these past weeks?
I loved writing it but… I can’t keep doing it. I feel like I’ve said all I needed to say. If I continue putting out a new and free piece every week, I’d be putting out content that I’m releasing “just because.” Content I don’t love. That I don’t wholeheartedly believe in. I can’t do that. I can’t release content I’m not 100% happy with. It isn’t fair to me. It isn’t fair to you.
The update
Honestly, all I’m changing is the schedule. I think I’ll release one new and free piece for all subscribers every month. A lot happens in a month. In my life. And with the world. So, I just know that I’ll have at least one big thing I’ll want to talk about every month.
As for paid subscribers, don’t fret, the schedule won’t change. I like the recommendations and mental health check-ups I’ve been doing. I think I’ll experiment by releasing these posts as audio recordings. Why? The tone of the writing has been casual and laid back. It’s really been me thinking out loud, dissecting a certain recommendation, or musing about mental health. So, it just makes sense to think these thoughts out loud via audio recordings. Should I want to expand and clarify these thoughts, bam, I’ll just write a full piece I’ll release for everyone.
The importance of prioritizing your happiness
If I’m being totally honest with myself, I haven’t been happy since January 2022. Since then, my “happy life” schedule which prioritized exercise, writing my books, and travel had been altered. I switched writing time to query time. When I was done querying, I returned to my “happy life” schedule, assuming that I’d be able to do this for a long time, just like I did from 2019 to 2022. I was wrong.
Why?
I’m getting older.
I’m changing.
And as I grow, so too do my priorities in my life. The priority that just happened to stumble into my mind was my financial state. What I do need to make clear, however, is that this priority is something I stumbled upon on my own.
My family didn’t force it upon me. Nor friends. Nor society. I won’t live my life at someone else’s pace, by someone else’s standards. This is my life. My novel. And I’m the author.
Nevertheless, from February 2023 up until the date I’m writing this piece, I thought that I needed to alter my “happy life” schedule from exercising, writing my fictional books, and traveling, to exercise, working on my Substack (nurturing that financial need), and traveling.
I thought that by following this schedule I’d be happy.
I was wrong. I haven’t been happy. If I was, I wouldn’t be feeling these strong and depressive spells that hit me out of nowhere. Spells that make me want to ball my eyes out for no apparent reason. Spells that get more frequent and more intense each time.
Fuck, I felt it a few days ago after I spent the day with a few buddies in San Diego. When the night was over, on the Uber back to my car, I felt that depressive spell despite having a good day. I felt like balling my eyes out. I felt unhappy. Deeply, deeply unhappy.
That’s not normal. I know myself. I know my “normal and happy” state. And if I was in that “normal and happy” state, then, on the Uber back to my car, yes, I would have felt emotional. Yes, I would have probably felt like tearing up since I’m a deeply sensitive man. But, I would have felt this out of gratitude. Out of joy. Joy for a great day with some great people.
If I was in my “normal and happy” state, I would have felt that way.
But, I didn’t. I was struck with a severe depressive spell instead. I was unhappy.
I’ve been unhappy.
I’ve been out of balance for a long time.
Most people would recommend that I see a therapist as if that were the be-all, end-all solution to all of my problems. Granted, I don’t want to shit on therapy. It works for some people. Most people.
Not me. I gave a therapist a call and I immediately did not like her tone, her vibes, and her advice, which ultimately gave off the impression that I need to be prescribed medication for my anxiety and depression.
Fuck that. Fuck her. I will not take those mind-altering drugs. Sure, it’ll numb the bad. The pain. The misery. But… it will also numb the good. The joy. The laughter.
I refuse to live a numb life.
And I accept every aspect of my complicated, overwhelming, and deeply intense emotions. I’ll cherish the good whenever it comes. And I’ll endure the bad when it strikes, reminding myself that the bad days only make the good ones all the more beautiful. All the more special.
With that said, I do want to make it clear that I’m aware that there are good and bad therapists. The therapist I called — though I despised her advice and vibes — isn’t a bad person. Or a bad therapist. I did feel that she genuinely cares for people. She was able to identify I was dealing with depression and anxiety, however, the problem was the solution she prescribed: medication.
But, that isn’t her fault. It’s how she was raised. It’s what she was taught in school and university. It’s what she was conditioned to think by the system, which I wrote about here.
Anywho.
Therapy doesn’t work for me. Since 2018, through a ton of self-reflection practices using audio recordings and journal entries, I’ve been able to be my own therapist. I share everything and anything I want to share and challenge myself to face uncomfortable thoughts and emotions. Every now and then — without the intention of doing so — through conversations with friends and strangers, they’ll be able to help me see something I’ve been struggling with in my life in a new light.
I’ve been my own therapist. And because of it, I know what my “normal and happy” state looks and feels like. So, when I was hit with that intense depressive spell in San Diego for no apparent reason, I brought out the journal entries. And the audio recordings. And I refused to move on with my life until I answered this question: Why? Why haven’t I been happy since January 2022?
It’s because I’m getting older.
It’s because I’m changing.
It’s because a new priority stumbled into my mind: my financial state. And, ever since this new priority stumbled into my mind, I’ve failed to find a new balance in my life. I’ve failed to realize that I need to expand my “happy life” schedule, not replace it.
What do I mean by that?
I mean that I don’t need need to replace my “happy life” schedule from…
Exercise
Writing my fictional books
Traveling
To
Exercise
Working on my Substack (nurturing that financial need)
Traveling
But I have to create a new “happy life” schedule that includes and expands my regular “happy life” schedule to…
Exercise
Finding a new financing option that: matters, gives me meaning, and passes the longevity test.
Writing my fictional books.
Traveling.
I’m getting older.
I’m changing.
And as I grow, so too do my priorities in my life. And with more priorities, comes more responsibility. And with more responsibility, comes great discomfort and… the need to create a new normal.
This past year (and then some) has been a battle of creating that new normal. That’s why I’ve been unhappy. Deeply, deeply unhappy. Nevertheless, I see that now. I see that I have to create a new normal in my own way, and, at my own pace.
It’ll be difficult adjusting to this new schedule. And uncomfortable. And overwhelming. Really, really fucking overwhelming, but, in time, and with repetition, I’ll adjust.
Human beings are creatures of habit. That can be a good thing and a bad thing. When I first added exercise into my life, it was fucking difficult. And uncomfortable. And overwhelming. I felt like quitting. Like I’d never be able to do this excruciating routine for four or five days a week.
I did. I endured the pain, and the discomfort, and within a few weeks, I adjusted. I created a new normal. A new and healthy habit. Today, I can’t go for more than two days without exercise. If I do, I feel like shit, thus affecting other areas of my life: my writing, emotions, and thoughts.
Exercise has become a healthy habit. Writing has become a healthy habit. Traveling has become a healthy habit. The next mountain to climb? Finding that new financing option that matters, gives me meaning, and passes the longevity test.
Thankfully, creating this Substack and releasing new content week after week finally made me realize one very important thing: if I can’t write non-fiction content that I love and have complete control over every week, how the fuck will I ever write for someone else?
I can’t. I won’t. Writing and working for someone else, no matter how amazing the company, peers, employers, and money, will make me miserable.
Freelance writing. Part-time writing. Full-time writing. It’s not for me. The only writing that passes the longevity test is my fictional books.
Nevertheless, the question then becomes: what job will feel fulfilling, give me meaning, and pass the longevity test?
There are a lot of options. So, so, so many options. So many choices. So many possible future timelines. Timelines I can envision in ten, twenty, and thirty years. Yet… there’s only one I can envision that won’t make me lose sight of my first and deepest love: my books (which I will succeed in making a living with).
That option is expanding and helping my father’s business.
Happiness, my past, and my father’s business
My dad started his business in 2012. I worked with him a few times, helping him out whenever I could, but, I ended up doing my own thing, soon getting my first minimum-wage job in early 2014. From 2014 to August 2015, I worked at Pizza Hut, Petco, and Ben and Jerry’s.
I didn’t spend more than seven months at each job.
Why?
I became unhappy. Deeply, deeply unhappy. Ben and Jerry’s hit me with my strongest misery spell. And rage. God, I felt so much fucking rage, so much so that I ended up taking out that rage on customers that didn’t deserve it (not cool, I know).
It wasn’t until my worst rage spell that I did some introspective work, soon telling myself that that wasn’t cool. That I’m bringing other people down. Customers. Co-workers. Employers. “I can’t keep doing this,” I said to myself. “I’m not happy here. I have to change that.”
I put in my two weeks that very night. And I called my dad the next morning while I was in college, asking if he had work.
He replied, “Always.”
Why am I telling you this?
Two reasons. One for me. One for you.
The first is a reminder to myself that even in what I consider to be my “toxic years”, I still prioritized my happiness (at least with work, let’s not go into my personal life during that time). I still refused to settle for anything that I deserved. To put up with bullshit bosses, bullshit work, and a bullshit environment that doesn’t give a single fuck about your happiness.
Two.
To remind you that happiness is a choice. And, to remind you that your happiness should be your first priority in life.
What does happiness look like? You ask.
I don’t know. It differs from person to person. My version of happiness could and is probably way different than yours. If you have a family and kids, then you’ll probably want to spend as much time with them as possible. If you’re on the older side and were never able to finish college because of unforeseen circumstances, then you’ll probably want to return to it and finish what you started.
The point is, happiness is very different for each and every human being. Your task should be to identify and create your own “happy life” schedule which, as you can see from sharing my story, is really fucking difficult.
Nevertheless, once you do create your own “happy life” schedule, work towards it. Stick to it. And make no compromises.
Yeah, you might feel like you’re letting some people down because you’re prioritizing yourself (friends, co-workers, and family), and, in some cases, these people will let you know that you’ve let them down. Or, that what you’re doing is wrong. Or some other shit like that.
But, again, you’ve got to stick to it, no matter what.
What I’ve learned in my personal experience is that yes, I might end up letting some people down by prioritizing my happiness in the short term, but, in the long term, those that care for me, really, really care for me, end up becoming happy for me.
Anywho. I’ve said all I needed to say. Nope. No. There are two things left to say.
One, thank you. You reading (or listening) to this and all my past content. I appreciate you, all of you, free and paid subscribers alike. Your support, no matter how big or small, means the world.
The second thing I have to say is…
Fuck therapy! I made this breakthrough with my happiness all on my own baby! I’m my own therapist motherfuckers!
Ok. Bye.