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Maybe this substack was what I needed to move forward, to stop trying to rewrite the last one, to put it in a box and say, okay. I’m done.
There wasn’t any point to worrying about a next book. I am, you might’ve heard, problematic. I was convinced I’d never sell another book. No point in trying. The problem is, I have opinions about that too. And I’m just going to keep on talking.
I used to talk on twitter. It’s how I found an audience. But anyone who finds an audience also finds those who just need to tear someone down. I’m a butch lesbian who swears a lot. I’ve never been able to play the game they want me to play. It’s not my nature. So I’m always going to catch some rocks. I know that. I kept talking because I cannot stay silent and this first post might tell you why. But on twitter, anyone could take my words and twist them. God knows. And I really fucking hate my words being twisted. You can’t wrestle the narrative back from those who have no interest in intent or meaning, or truth. But it’s a little harder to take me out of context off of twitter. Turns out I started this substack just in time. I was able to use it to say what I needed to say.
Because the one thing I do have, that I kind of forgot, is motherfucker I really can fucking write. Thanks for helping me remember that.
I don’t actually like fighting or maybe I’m just tired. So it was nice to have a place where I could ignore the battle of the day. These days, I don’t even know what that is. I’ll log in to scroll sometimes and I’ve got no idea what anyone’s talking about. I’m working on a van or playing with my dog or writing about whatever pops into my head. I even got the chance to post a little fiction. I like this one a lot.
Maybe what I really needed was a goddamn hobby, a project. Something to focus on. I just felt fucking trapped. Road trips helped. And I realized I drive different when I have a dog with me. I have to.
I had something like an idea. And I started thinking it could work. But I’m not the type of person who can test the water. I have to just fucking jump and hope I remember how to swim. So I bought a van.
And suddenly, it seemed, I kept talking about the van. I realize this confused the shit out of a lot of y’all. But I couldn’t explain at the time.
Some of y’all had advice like maybe you should write a book about a van—have you read Travels with Charley? I couldn’t respond because there are things you don’t talk about. You don’t talk about hashing out the idea with your agents and friends, fucking around with a proposal you cannot seem to write, or finally sitting down at a bar with Elizabeth McCracken (THANK YOU) who somehow pulls it out of you, then going back and forth for another few months with your agents until it’s right. You don’t talk about waiting to hear back from your publisher. You can barely think about it much less say it aloud, god forbid write something down. You don’t talk about when you do hear back and holy fuck they want it and your editor loves the idea and wants to work with you. You don’t talk about any of that. Because none of it’s real until you get to post one of these little screenshots from Publisher’s Marketplace. Then it’s real. And since y’all were here while I figured this crap out, it was fun as shit to post it here.
So thank you, for subscribing, for reading, for putting up with my weird shit and my grumpy shit, for sticking around, for celebrating with me. I hope you’re around for the rest of it, whatever the hell that turns out to be.
Year in review part 2
You're right: you really CAN fucking write.
I love your writing. Thanks for sharing it.
So happy you share in this place. I really do look forward to seeing you in my inbox.