That's What He Alsaid

On beatific mornings, and being cog-nizant

A few weeks (months? years?) ago I had the thought that I should start up a newsletter again. My first attempt was years ago and inconsistent, mostly an attempt to drum up added attention for my novels. But on this (not-so) recent Sunday I thought that I needed a place to just write. To process the world in the way that I do, untethered from contracts or money.

This thought came because it was a lovely morning. I was in the kitchen, preparing brunch for some friends who were coming over. My wife was attempting to get our toddler to help with some tidying up, though in the picture I took of the moment the tidying feels decidedly unacomplished. There’s raw bacon on the cutting board, the broom is resting in the middle of the kitch atop a splayed-open sticker book, the backdoor is open to our deck, where we were carrying out furniture from the toddler’s playroom in order to fight the invasion of ants that had appeared overnight. It was a hectic morning, but the undertone was joy. The joy of my little family, and a meal to be shared with friends.

This little moment caused me to go through the motions of starting a newsletter up again, but I only got so far as signing up for Substack and rehashing the dubious title I’d given my first attempt at a newsletter (which has somehow made it past whatever editorial voice exists in my head that begged a more serious title). I tried to write in a way that captured that beatific morning, but failed to, either because I had something more pressing (and paying) to write, or because inspiration didn’t strike. I told myself it was okay to let that pleasant morning go unwritten, even if it would have made a lovely jumping off point to this new writing adventure of mine.

A few weeks went by and I wrote the above (letting something go unwritten is harder said than done) as a preface to a rather rageful letter after the US elections. This newsletter pulsed back to life with a subtitle that read: Conceived in joy, birthed by rage. A good subtitle, but that wasn’t meant to be either. Rage—though it has its place and its reasons and its uses—is not my brand.

Here were are again. A few weeks later. And if this actually arrives in your inbox, then this is what birthed it: a lack of a deadline, inspiration, a concern about money, added time to think about what I do with my life. About the luck I’ve had over the past ten years to move my fingers around a keyboard and make a career out of it. About the fact that it wasn’t always my career, it was an impulse, a compulsion, a way to be. I’ve thought about how many people have the same compulsion, and how few of them get to do it day-after-day without having to work on anything else. For ten years, no less.

There’s something funny and strange and the slightest bit tragic that happens when you write full-time as a career. Art gets mixed up with the practicalities of life. This thing you spiritually have to do becomes a thing you financially have to do (lest you—gasp—get a regular job). There’s a clear privilege in having your job be something you love to do, something you would do either way, if no one was paying you (you would just do it less). And yet through this luck and privilege and desire to keep the luck going, there’s a longing for this little passion you had way back when, before you became a writer. It existed almost entirely within you, yet unvalidated by the world, all full of hope and promise and joy (and frustration and longing and envy, I’m sure past-me would add).

And then a book you pitch gets turned down. Another one. The book world carries on as incomprehensibly as it always has, a machine like all the others, caring little for the cogs within it, or, rather, disagreeing with the cogs about what they should cog next and how and what cogs will sell without any marketing at all. If that metaphor is tracking… So, you slip on those rose-colored glasses and you wonder what happened to that little ball of promise and passion, how you can get it back. But, you know, still with a paycheck.

Basically, the fear I’ve always had that this could disappear at any moment is closer than it’s been since I got my first book deal. And with it comes the desperation to find other ways to keep doing this. To keep writing for income.

I’ve flocked to freelancing websites, most of which seem borderline scammy, or lead to actual scams, or simply promise an abundance of measly-paying jobs that don’t amount to a living. I’ve offered my services as a ghostwriter, an editor, a beta reader, a wedding speech writer. I’ve caved to my friend with an MBA who suggested I monetize the murder mysteries I’ve been writing with my brother-in-law for years. Monetization! A blessing and a curse, a need.

Definitely a real work opportunity.

Right now, this newsletter is a space to write when there are no deadlines. A space to write without book deals, without a marketing team to convince, without Barnes and Noble or Amazon’s approval to seek. A space I haven’t carved for my writing since before my writing was my career. A space to capture beatific mornings.

But also; yes, I started this newsletter with that nagging thought that it could lead to money for my writing.

So, all this to say, welcome to this space. I apologize that I somewhat forced you into it. Please feel free to unsubscribe immediately. Though you should know, historically speaking, there is only a 50% chance I keep this up with any regularity.

There might be some occasional book news here, if I ever have any again. There’ll be little snippets from my life, just writing for writing’s sake. Maybe an outline for a book that got killed and I don’t see a path for any time soon. Written out thoughts that would have passed for a blog entry in 2010. Recipes and doodles and screenplays and more vague venting about the publishing world. Human connection and strings of bad puns and recommendations for someone else’s art.

And, fair warning that if I do keep this up with regularity, there’s a chance that a paid element will emerge to this. I don’t know yet what that will look like or how I’ll implement it, but too many people around me went to business school for me to not think about it, and costumes for murder mystery parties cost money.

That’s what you’ll find here, if you stick around. Thanks for being here.

Milan Fashion Week 2023, a murder mystery party co-written by GooGoo Gachoo (yours truly) and The Pope. Now available for purchase.