It’s accessible at any moment of any day. You can scroll your phone at 3 AM on a random Tuesday and find an answer to almost any question within minutes. AI can gather, summarize, and reorganize nearly everything that has already been said into a neat little box that you can copy/paste. There are millions of people regurgitating what they see on the internet in the form of reels, captions, podcasts, essays, and even books.

So where does that leave you if your work depends on your voice?

It means you need to have something interesting to say. It means the people with the guts, the stories, and the perspective (and not one they adopted from some lady on TikTok) are going to stand out.

It also means not everyone gets to win right now.

Showing up and “being authentic” doesn’t guarantee you an audience or readers. Your life isn’t interesting just because it happened to you. Everyone has a story. But not everyone can take that story and turn it into art.

Anyone can start a Substack. Anyone can jump on a podcast each week and talk into a mic. Anyone can self-publish a book. But when everyone has access to the same information and the same tools, having access isn’t the advantage anymore.

So what is the advantage? How do you create something worth reading, consuming, and obsessing over?

Before we get into that, we need to talk about the whole niche obsession — and where it came from.

You’ve heard all the “experts” telling you the reason you’re not successful yet is that you don’t have a niche. They promise you’ll finally get more followers when you zero in on that one topic and go all in.

The advice has been the same song on repeat: Pick a niche. Talk about that one thing. Become known for that one thing. Stay in your lane. Don’t confuse your audience.

Be a relationship expert. A health guru. A beauty influencer. A memoirist. A business coach. But just ONE of those things. Don’t veer out of your lane – or else! The problem is, niche advice didn’t come from actual creators. It came from the systems that needed to categorize them.

Bookstores needed to organize their shelves. TV needed segments. Magazines needed columns. It was easier (and frankly, lazier) to put people into neat little boxes and focus on their topic rather than the person behind it.

After all, the gatekeepers don’t really care about you – they care about your product. The thing you create that’s going to make them money.

I learned this firsthand after Penguin Random House acquired the rights to my book Girl Code. The book had become a self-published success and was positioned as a business book for women, so the industry naturally decided that business was my niche.

My next book, Like She Owns the Place, wasn’t a business book. It was about confidence. But when it came time to sell it, the publisher insisted on positioning it as business anyway. It was shelved in the business section of bookstores and promoted through business media, despite my objections.

The system couldn’t — or wouldn’t — understand that a woman could write about business in one book and confidence in another. It was easier to sell the category than understand the writer. I wasn’t confusing. I was just a lot more nuanced than the box they had built for me.

Like She Owns the Place was still successful, outselling many other traditionally published titles. But none of that had to do with the way it was packaged. It was a success because I marketed it to the right audience myself. I sold it to my community of readers I had been building for years on my own. They were invested in what I had to say because I had been speaking to them for a decade.

Years later, I published a dating memoir called Don’t Do Anything I Would Do. Now I hadn’t just changed subjects; I had crossed genres — from business to personal development to memoir. Conventional wisdom would say I was confusing my audience. My actual readers understood exactly what I was doing.

In fact, I received this message yesterday from a longtime reader:

I’ve never needed a niche to sell my books. Because the niche has always been my voice. It’s been my willingness to tell my stories, share my perspective, and connect with my audience based on the conversations I’m interested in having with them.

Not the conversations I’ve boxed myself into through an Instagram bio or previous work or website copy.

I was willing to expand. And my audience came right along with me. Because they were expanding, too.

This is where the niche advice gets it so wrong. It assumes that people are loyal to a topic. When in reality, they are loyal to the way you see the world.

People don’t want recycled information that sounds like it came from an internet search. They want stories. They want style. They want a vibe. They want someone with an opinion. Someone with experience. Someone who’s lived through some shit and can comment on it.

What makes certain creators rise to the top is the way they talk about those things. It’s the spin they put on it.

Real people are emotional, ever-changing beings. They aren’t one dimensional and they can’t be categorized. And the most magnetic minds on the internet can’t either. Your unique perspective, your life experience, your wisdom, your style, your energy. The way you see and do life. All of those things are what make you stand out in a sea of cookie cutter content buckets.

Audiences don’t follow content, they follow people. The content may initially attract them, but the person makes them stay.

Because people make them feel something. Especially the people who can teach them something or influence the way they see and do life. When you realize this, you give yourself permission to curate a universe rather than a single-topic conversation.

Most people think they’re here to promote something. A book, an offer, a course, a product they made. But that’s not what people are actually connecting to.

When you build a platform around a single piece of work, you end up trapping yourself inside it. Every post becomes about selling. Every conversation becomes about convincing. And eventually, even you get bored. And spoiler alert: so does your audience.

But when you build a platform around yourself — your thoughts, your stories, your way of seeing the world — you create something that can hold everything you’ll ever make.

Your book (or whatever you are selling) is not the brand. The book is just one expression of it. Your life is the material. But not just what happened to you. The meaning you make of your life is what makes you worth reading.

Being interesting isn’t another thing to perform, though. It’s something you cultivate deeply within yourself. It’s the conversation you have with a stranger at the bar. It’s the solo trip you take. It’s the willingness to change your mind when you learn something new.

And this is where “you are the niche” is sort of lazy advice. Because merely talking about yourself doesn’t make you interesting. Documenting every meal, mood, purchase, and passing thought is not the same as developing a worldview.

Interesting people are interested. They follow their obsessions. They get curious about life. They bet on themselves. They leave the job. They exit the relationship. They start the business. They lose everything. They earn it back.

Their life has teeth. Their stories hold wisdom.

And most importantly, they do something with all of that. They turn it into art. They write it. They teach it. They live through it.

For years, we were told to pick a lane. I think it’s time to own exactly who you are — without the suffocating rules that told you who you should be. Then go out and give the world something only you could have made.

Without permission. And without apology.

And most of you are waiting.

To be chosen, picked, crowned, and deemed worthy of becoming an author…the title that will change the entire trajectory of your life and career.

The title you can choose for yourself. Right now.

Let’s rewind a bit. The year was 2008. I had started a little blog called The Champagne Diet and knew I wanted it to become a book. It would be part memoir, part personal development through the lens of a twenty-something year old girl navigating life and love in New York City.

Think Sex and The City meets The Secret. It sounds like a weird combo, I know. But the concept worked because my blog was starting to blow up. I knew this book would be a hit.

I had glittering dreams of a Y2K cosmopolitan-fueled book party and signings at the Union Square Barnes and Noble in New York City dancing through my mind. I’d wear pink (obviously) and get write-ups in Vogue. It was all happening beautifully in my pretty little head until…it wasn’t.

A few years into writing my blog I did wind up securing a literary agent. Something that 99% of people can’t do (look up the stats, I’m not being dramatic). Once I got my agent, the real work began.

The book I dreamed of publishing had to first take shape in the form of a competitive proposal that would have to dazzle the editorial assistants at all the major publishing houses and even the smaller ones. If it passed initial scanning from the assistant, it would get through to the acquisitions editor. Then, if we were lucky, the editor would take it to the publisher.

That proposal took six painstaking months to create. I worked on it day and night. Obsessing over every detail and pouring every bit of energy I had into getting it “perfect.”

Once the book went on submission to editors, we waited some more. Every day I stalked my inbox hoping and praying someone (anyone) would email us back.

Finally, three months after my precious proposal began collecting digital dust, I sent my agent a frustrated email asking for answers. I got back a laundry list of No’s from all the major publishers and even the small ones. Nineteen, to be exact.

The feedback was similar: She’s not a celebrity. Her writing is good but it’s not great. The story isn’t unique enough.

At the same time, I had been keeping an eye on what was happening in the world of self-publishing. Amazon had recently launched a print-on-demand platform for authors called CreateSpace (now known as KDP) and it was gaining a ton of popularity.

Creators everywhere—authors, musicians, artists—were realizing that the gatekeepers were no longer relevant thanks to platforms like YouTube, CreateSpace, and the budding world of social media. Seth Godin wrote a blog called Pick Yourself that became my power mantra.

I decided to stop letting those gatekeepers determine my fate and I self-published my book.

I didn’t have a big audience. Thanks to the noise I created on my tiny Twitter account that I barely knew how to work, and my personal Facebook page filled with family and friends, that book hit #1 on multiple categories on Amazon the weekend of its release.

I became addicted to the speed, creative freedom, and power of self-publishing. Just me, my voice, and the ability to put it directly into the hands of women who needed it.

So I kept going.

I self-published a book every year after that, refining my voice, learning what worked, and building my audience.

Eventually, I self-published a book called Girl Code.

Girl Code wasn’t just another book. It was a movement. It was a book about everything I believed about women—that when we show up fully for ourselves and for each other, we win. That so much of what we imagine for ourselves is possible. There are women out there already living proof of it. And when we turn envy into inspiration instead of competition, incredible things can happen. That women are infinitely more powerful together than apart. That ambition, friendship, and success is so much better when we stop competing and start collaborating.

Girl Code went on to sell over 76,000 copies on Amazon in a matter of a few months. I was suddenly being asked to give keynote speeches around the country. I was approached by foreign publishers to translate the book. I was even invited to Tokyo to sign books for a group of women who were using Girl Code to practice their English and empower themselves.

And I was making a lot of fucking money.

At the height of Girl Code, I was making consistent $20,000 months just from my sales on Amazon.

Not because a publisher chose me. But because I chose myself.

And then one Thanksgiving eve, I looked at my inbox and there it was. An email from an editor at Penguin Random House. They wanted to talk.

After years of rejection, years of doing it on my own, I was finally being offered a book deal. A pretty hefty one, at that.

$200,000 for two books.

They wanted to buy the rights to Girl Code and publish my next title, which would become Like She Owns the Place.

I was thrilled, flattered, excited, and curious. Not because I didn’t believe in the power of self-publishing, but because I wanted to explore the dream I had carried with me my whole life. I wanted to see what would be possible with a massive publishing house behind me. I was incredibly hopeful.

So I took the deal.

And in some ways, I’m grateful that I did. I got to see the side of publishing that felt so far away from me for so long. I got to walk through the doors of Penguin Random House and sit at a conference room table – the same one that Sophia Amoroso and Seth Godin sat at. I got to have a team do my makeup and style me for my book cover. I got to receive a very large sum of money for my work, something I never dreamed I’d experience, especially after so much rejection.

But I also got to see a very harsh reality of the traditional publishing world.

First let’s talk about the advance. The thing about a book advance is that you have to actually “earn out” an advance before you ever see a penny of your royalties. Think of it as a loan against your own book.

It’s not a gift.

And since your royalty rate as a traditional author is somewhere between 5-8% of each book sold, that’s the percentage that’s put toward your advance.

I receive 7.5% of my book sales. You can do the math here. Years later, I still haven’t earned out that advance. And I’ve sold over 75,000 books through Penguin.

And it’s not just about the money. Traditional publishers rely heavily on the author to do the majority of the marketing for the book. They don’t choose you and decide to build you into a famous author.

They choose you because they know you can sell a book. Then they keep most of the royalties.

And you are still doing an enormous amount of work to sell that book. You’re coordinating your own blurbs for the cover and the sales page. You’re reaching out to people to set up interviews. You’re coordinating (and paying for) your own book launch events.

Some can argue that they provide you with a team so the trade-off is worth it. Sure, you’re assigned an editor, a publicist, and a cover designer. But you don’t pick that team. And you’re one of many authors in a machine that just doesn’t have the capacity to give your book the level of attention it deserves. At least in my experience.

And possibly the most heartbreaking part of all of this?

They own your work. Forever.

Unlike my independently published books, I couldn’t just decide I wanted those rights back. They were governed by the terms of my publishing contract.

As an entrepreneur, I quickly experienced the downside of my traditional publishing experience. And I knew I’d go back to self-publishing immediately.

And that’s exactly what I did.

To date, I have earned more money from my self-published books than I did my book deal. $721,509.26 to be exact.

On top of that, I have complete creative control and ownership of those books. I got to choose my covers. I got to pick my editors. They appear on Amazon, in some bookstores, in some airports, and in 10 languages around the world.

Two summers ago, I flew to Paris to sign books and do interviews with French podcasts for the release of my self-published book, Girl on Fire, in French. A woman-owned, boutique French publisher had discovered the book and approached me about acquiring the rights to publish it there.

Not because Penguin opened that door for me. Because the book I chose to publish myself traveled far enough to open it on its own.

That experience also reminded me that I’m not anti-publisher. I’ve worked with wonderful people in publishing, and there are independent and boutique publishers doing beautiful work and creating partnerships that genuinely serve authors.

What I am fiercely against are the economics of the major traditional publishing model.

I think authors deserve better.

I think it’s absurd that the person who creates the intellectual property gets such a small percentage of the revenue it generates. I think it’s absurd that authors are expected to have a built-in audience, market their own books, sell their own books, and then hand over the lion’s share of the royalties — along with significant creative control — for the privilege of being published.

And yet, writers spend their entire career working toward that privilege.

And I get it. We have a natural instinct to be chosen, and traditional publishing is based on the idea that you are lucky to be chosen by them.

And to that I say…fuck that.

It is time to choose ourselves. To do it our way. And doing it our way does not mean we need to do it in isolation.

There is a massive difference between a publishing partnership and a publishing hierarchy. There are models that prioritize and honor the author, creatively and financially. I created that model with Pink Ink Press.

And choosing yourself is not limited to publishing books. This goes for everything we create. Podcasts, brands, events, businesses. Waiting kills momentum. Waiting kills creativity. Waiting keeps you small.

And waiting keeps you broke.

There is a whole world waiting for you when you choose yourself.

Maybe it’s time you stop begging for a door to open and instead build your own damn house.

xx

Cara

PS - My inbox is filling up with questions about publishing, book ideas, Substack + what to do next. If you want to dig into yours with me, I opened a handful of private Power Hour sessions for September. Bring me the thing that’s been living rent-free in your head. We’ll spend an hour figuring out what to do with it — and you’ll have a week of email access to me afterward. :)

Book a Power Hour with me → caraalwill.thrivecart.com/substack-power-hour/

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You can only imagine how shocked I was.

Not only was I extremely flattered as a writer, but I was surprised by which quote they chose. Not because I don’t love it. I do. I wrote it, after all.

But because I wrote these words back in 2013 on my tiny little blog, The Champagne Diet.

Back before Instagram was really a thing.

Back before Girl Code.

Back before I had sold hundreds of thousands of books.

Back before a book deal.

Back before the speaking engagements and a podcast with millions of listeners.

Back when I was just a woman sitting alone in a cheap hotel room in London after using every last hour of PTO from my day job to fly across the ocean and meet the only two readers I had in the entire UK (Hi Krishma and Lucy!).

Here’s the quote:

Thirteen years later, someone across the world found those words and connected with them deeply enough to make them part of an international campaign. And introduced them to thousands of travelers I’ll never meet.

I didn’t pitch Air Serbia. I didn’t try to “go viral.” I was just doing the work. Writing my little heart out and putting it into the world.

Looking back, I couldn’t have known those words I wrote on that tiny blog would ever wind up on a billboard. I didn’t even know if anyone would read them.

You really have no idea which sentence is going to put you on the map (literally). Or which essay will become a book. Or which story will catch on like wildfire and impact women around the world.

That’s why I believe so fiercely about writing online.

Because you truly never know where your words will land. Or whose life they will change (Including your own).

You don’t need to have a huge subscriber list. You don’t even need to call yourself a writer yet. You don’t need a book deal. You don’t even need to have a plan.

You just need to write a sentence worth remembering. And the courage to hit publish.

That’s why I created my signature mentorship program, Substack Queen.

Not to help you chase subscribers or viral moments (ew). But to help you build a real body of work that has the power to open doors, connect you with readers, and who knows - maybe even years from now - surprise you in the wildest of ways. Like on a billboard.

The fall semester starts in a few weeks and spots are already filling up.

I’m taking 12 women only so that I can actually know your name, read your work, and have enough space for honest conversations and real, meaningful questions and feedback. Get the details + grab your spot here.

Remember, the goal isn’t to make your life become content. It’s to make it become literature.

And if you’re not ready to commit to the 5-week experience, book a power hour with me instead.

So grab a fresh new notebook and let’s write your stories together this fall.

xx,
Cara

Talk dirty to me about your book tour, your writing routine, your media coverage, your social media strategy — ALL OF IT. There is no detail too boring. And please show me lots of photos!

So I thought it might be fun to take you guys behind the scenes of some of my creative process.

Yesterday I found myself going down memory lane looking at photos from the book launch party for my last memoir, Don’t Do Anything I Would Do. It’s the most honest, unhinged, raw book I’ve ever written about my dating life in my early 40s. Dating app disasters, toxic situationships that I just couldn’t let go of, embarrassing lows, the complete chaos of trying to find yourself when your birth certificate says you’re 40 but in your mind you’re still 27.

It’s funny and it’s cringe and it’s the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written. But I am so glad I did because I still get messages from women who thank me for writing the reality of what it’s actually like to be so desperate to find love while feeling like it’s the thing you are the absolute worst at.

As I looked through my camera roll I found the book cover concepts I was considering before deciding on the final one. It was so wild to imagine how different the book could have looked. And although I love what I landed on, I’m now battling the slightly insane idea of changing it one year later. Because I simply cannot leave well enough alone lol.

Here they are. Dying to know what your favorite is! And please tell me if you enjoy these kinds of posts. I have plenty more where this came from.

Concept #1. This was the one I almost went with. I still love it so much! Fun fact: those are the first six digits of my actual phone number. Please don’t prank call me.

Concept #2. I loved this one too, but I didn’t want people to see all that wine and slip me the phone number to my nearest AA meeting. Although wine is basically the main character in this book so I might not have blamed them haha.

Concept #3. This one was fun and was meant to be a play on dating app culture, but it didn’t feel strong enough as a cover to me.

Concept #4. This is the closest to the final version. I came up with the idea of crossing out the letters in Wouldn’t. The pink was just a little too subtle for the story itself.

The final version. I needed this cover to pop. I think my exact words to my designer were: “We have to go as Barbie pink as possible.” I also loved the idea of using red as the ink color that crossed out the letters because I felt like it conveyed the feeling of making a huge mistake — which, if you read the book, you’ll know I did. Repeatedly. LOL.

So…did I make the right choice!? If you haven’t read the book yet, you can pick up a copy here. And let me know in the comments, which one would you have picked?

After my semester-long internship at the label, where I was responsible for writing fan newsletters for Alicia Keys, Busta Rhymes, and Rod Stewart, I dropped out of college because I couldn’t wait to go to work in the music industry. I took a job as the front desk receptionist at the newly formed J Records, and was immediately placed in training to become the second executive assistant to Clive’s main EA. She needed backup and I was hungry to immerse myself in any and all areas of the business.

Music was my life. I started my own music magazine from my Brooklyn bedroom in 1997 with my best friend, Jen. We’d flip our CDs over and get the names of the record labels of our favorite bands, then find their phone numbers and cold call the receptionists, praying we’d get transferred to the PR department so we could shoot our shot and try to score backstage passes and interviews with those artists.

And it worked.

Honeyspider fanzine (of which I made myself the CEO and Editor-in-Chief) went on to interview bands like Blink 182, Metallica, Matthew Sweet, and others. Here’s a longer post on that if you’re in the mood for a rabbit hole.

I worked the front desk at J Records from 9 AM - 5:30 PM, answering phones and greeting artists and employees. Then at 5:30 PM, I’d head back to Clive’s office (Mr. Davis, as the assistants called him). I did everything from taking dictation (he never used a computer, so every email began with him sitting at his giant mahogany desk and reciting it aloud while I scribbled furiously in a yellow legal pad), to booking his travel, running his errands, making his dinner reservations, and transferring phone calls from legends like Whitney Houston and Aretha Franklin.

I often worked in that office until 11 PM. It was so late that the label would send me home from the city in a private car service.

Eventually, I was promoted to his office full time.

Mr. Davis did not accept mediocrity. Dropping the ball was not an option. Excellence was the name of the game and I spent many nights crying at my desk after he reminded me that I was, more often than not, failing at my job.

But I worked relentlessly to meet those impossible standards. And soon, I began to nail them. I learned to anticipate his needs. I said yes to anything that was asked of me. And he began to trust me.

I did my job well and I did it with pride. It was not lost on me that at 22 years old, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. And I was not going to fuck it up.

Mr. Davis and I were both from Brooklyn. I knew he was a mogul before I got the job, but once I began working for him, I became fascinated by his story. I’d watch his television interviews from the couch in my little Brooklyn apartment with my mother and then return to the office the next morning with one of his quotes rattling around in my head.

In a CBS interview, he recalled asking a young Bruce Springsteen a simple question before signing him:

“Are you hungry?”

I never forgot it. At 22 years old, I wasn’t just hungry. I was starving.

Although I was only in that role for a year, it changed me forever. I learned that preparation, discipline, and a relentless work ethic are what separates the good from the extraordinary. And I wanted to be extraordinary. For Mr. Davis, but most importantly, for myself.

Now, over twenty years later, when people ask me how I’ve managed to publish ten books, launch a publishing imprint, build multiple businesses and pick myself back up after every failure, I can tell you that part of the answer lives in that young girl with a yellow legal pad, determined to prove she belonged in rooms she had no business being in.

Refusing to fail. Hellbent on becoming extraordinary.

Mr. Davis, I am eternally grateful for you.

May you rest in peace.

It’s no secret that Substack is exploding. Writers are building real communities here. Newsletters are becoming media companies. Authors are launching books without waiting for permission. Women are realizing their lives are worth writing about and they are no longer waiting for a big publishing house or a magazine byline to do it. They’re writing weekly columns, serializing books, hosting literary salons, creating businesses, and generating meaningful income from their words.

The Vogue article, which is about the launch of award-winning journalist Carson Griffith’s new Substack called Rich People Shit, writes:

“The literary parallel felt fitting, though. For decades, New York’s media and publishing worlds have marked milestones with book parties. Increasingly, newsletters are building the same kind of connection and finding equally good reasons to gather in person. “At a certain point, it felt like the newsletter had escaped from my laptop and become a real-world community,” Griffith noted.”

My own literary salon, which I've hosted in Brooklyn for the past two years, exists because of Substack. Women who first connected through my writing began showing up in person. Friendships formed, collaborations emerged, and a whole creative community took shape. And that community eventually helped inspire the creation of my indie hybrid publishing house, Pink Ink Press.

I came of age as a writer were there were gatekeepers everywhere. If you wanted a book launch party, you had to hope your writing was good enough to be chosen by one of the big publishing houses. If you wanted to be published at all as a writer, you’d have to spend hours pitching magazines. You spent more time hoping and praying and trying to be chosen as a writer than actually writing.

But only a tiny percentage of us were ever actually chosen. So as a result, millions of women internationalized that rejection and the story that their words weren’t worth sharing. But it was never about lack of talent. It was simply that they weren’t handed a mic.

Now a woman can write, in real time, inside a divorce. She can publish a Substack from the trenches of motherhood as her newborn sleeps and she questions her identity. She can document what it’s like to fall in love again. She can write an essay about her relationship with her body. With her drinking. With herself. And within minutes, that essay can reach thousands of other women who can read it and say, “Thank god someone else gets it.”

That is a revolution.

After spending this past week New York surrounded by fellow authors, publishers, Substack writers, literary salons, and conversations about the future of publishing, I came home more convinced than ever that we’re witnessing a massive shift in how women build audiences, communities, and careers.

Substack has been the vehicle for us to do it, but I think what we’re seeing is so much more than the rise of a newsletter platform. We’re seeing a generation of women reclaim the narrative of their lives. And I have a feeling we’re just getting started.

PS - Over the past few months, I've had dozens of conversations with women who know they have something to say but aren't sure how to shape it into a Substack, book, business, or body of work. If that's you, I've opened a handful of Substack Power Hour sessions this summer. You can learn more here.

Today I woke up and before doing anything else (including making my espresso), I went straight to my desk, flipped on my pink light, and turned on my computer.

I opened up the Word doc with my current work in progress (Book #11!) and said out loud to the Universe: I’m open to receiving a new title for my book. Please download me with something bigger and bolder.

And within minutes, I had it.

I thought I had it yesterday, but today, The Divine woke me up out of a deep sleep and said, Do better, bitch. So I listened.

(I get very spiritual when I’m writing a book. There’s channeling. There’s talking to God. It’s a whole thing.)

Today the title came to me. And it’s fucking good.

I’ll share more about the book, the title, and the cover over the coming weeks. But today I want to talk to you about the most aggressive goal I’ve ever set in my life — to write this book in ten days.

Yes, ten days. Meaning, the first draft of this book will be complete by March 19th. Next Thursday. It feels psychotic. It also feels thrilling. That’s usually my sign that I’m onto something big.

The plan is simple. Write 3,000 words a day, every day, for ten days. If I can’t finish the 3,000 words on a particular day, I’ll write more the next day. That brings me to a 30,000 word book — my sweet spot. Most of my books land at around that word count because believe it or not, although I love to yap, I do not love to ramble. I’m concise. I say what needs to be said and I move on.

And I think people appreciate that.

The world is wired differently these days. The human attention span is roughly 47 seconds. You gotta hook ‘em quick. The vision for this book is micro chapters, each one somewhere between 1000-1500 words. If I treat each chapter like a Substack post, I’ll be able to trick myself into writing faster, not overthinking, and trusting in the magic of momentum.

The book is non-fiction, and it’s based on patterns I’ve noticed, experiences I’ve lived through, and observations I’ve been collecting for the past decade. Of course there’s research, data analysis, and fact-checking involved, but for the most part, I know my shit. So my goal is doable.

But here’s the real reason I’m doing this…

I’ve spent fourteen years writing books all kinds of ways. Over months. Over years. With proposals. With publishers. With nothing but my own grit, a pink laptop, and a dream.

I’ve procrastinated. I’ve done seven-hour writing sprints. I’ve waited desperately for the inspiration I thought I lost to find its way to me again and I’ve self-sabotaged more times than I can count.

But I’ve never given myself ten days and said: Go, bitch.

I’m not overthinking, I’m not comparing, and I’m not getting distracted. It’s just me, this book, and pure momentum. Because at my ripe old age of forty-five, I’ve learned that my best work doesn’t come from perfection, it comes from movement.

I got a new tattoo on my hand the other day. It says: Create. (God told me to do this too, by the way). It’s a reminder every time I look down at my hand that the best thing I can do is write.

Ten days. Let’s go.

I’ll check in again soon.

xx

Cara

When it first became a thing in my thirties, and it seemed like everyone around me was freezing their foreheads on the regular, I swore I’d never do it. I was hard-pressed on aging gracefully and I idolized glamorous, mature women who actually looked their age but also took care of themselves,…

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Case in point, the first “book” I ever wrote and apparently self-published at thirteen through Cara Enterprises. I even included a copyright page and an About the Author page lol.

I’ve wanted to be an author as far back as I can remember. So much so that I went ahead and crowned myself in the eighth grade. Who needs a publisher when you have a dot matrix printer and early 90’s teenage delusion on your side?

Fast-forward to my late twenties, when I was fully sold the Carrie Bradshaw fantasy. Naturally, I decided this was the moment one of the Big Five would discover me, whisk me into the New York literary stratosphere, and throw me a Cosmopolitan-drenched book launch party in a Midtown penthouse. I’d be teetering in four-inch hot pink sparkly stilettos while editors from Vogue and Allure elbowed each other for a chance to gush about my debut book — a manifesto for women determined to live their very best “Champagne Life.”

Fourteen Novembers ago, I was sitting in my cubicle at MTV, refreshing Gmail like it was a slot machine, waiting for my literary agent’s assistant to tell me that my proposal, The Champagne Diaries, had sold.

I just combed back through those emails while drafting this piece because I wanted to revisit that awful, stomach-in-my-throat feeling of praying to be “chosen” by a publisher, any publisher, so I could finally fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming an author.

The sixty-six-page proposal makes me smile now. I had spent years studying the pitching process before I ever landed my agent, so when it came time to present the final draft, I thought I was ahead of the game. Here’s a peek at what Baby Cara was up to in 2011…

That proposal was ultimately rejected. Nineteen times. By nineteen publishers (clearly the net was cast far wider than the Big Five — we’re talking deep sea fishing). Nobody wanted to publish me. Some of the feedback I received, verbatim, was that I wasn’t famous enough, my story wasn’t unique enough, my writing wasn’t good enough.

The unspoken feedback was that I didn’t fit in. I was too pink, too loud, too sparkly, too much.

Around that time, Seth Godin published a mini blog called Pick Yourself. 236 words that detonated something within me. In the piece, he advocates for essentially giving a giant middle finger to the gatekeepers and choosing yourself in a world that worships being chosen.

Meanwhile, Amazon’s self-publishing platform (then called Createspace) was becoming the place for authors we were tired of waiting for permission. Suddenly, forging your own path wasn’t just a rebellious fantasy. It was a strategy. And I was into it.

I self-published my first book, Sparkle: The Girl’s Guide to Living a Deliciously Dazzling, Wildly Effervescent, Kick-Ass Life, then another, then another. By 2015 I had quit MTV and was able to pay my New York City rent on my book royalties. No small feat in a city where most people work 2-3 jobs just to get by.

And let’s be honest: that never would have happened under traditional publishing’s royalty structure, where authors take home 10–15% while the publisher pockets the rest. Choosing myself didn’t just give me creative freedom, it gave me an income stream traditional publishing never could have afforded me.

And then came Girl Code.

The little self-published book that could — and did. It sold over 76,000 copies on its own in its first year and was bringing in anywhere from $15,000 to $20,000 a month in Amazon royalties. Not common, but absolutely possible. I know, because I was doing it. Every month. From my little Brooklyn apartment.

And then Penguin came calling.

Even after all my success as a self-published author, a part of me still longed to be “chosen.” So when a Big Five publisher slid into my inbox, I said yes. I sold the rights to Girl Code — forever. I also signed on to publish a book exclusively with Penguin which became Like She Owns the Place. I got a solid advance, which in traditional publishing is basically a short-term paycheck to keep you afloat while you write. But here’s the truth no one tells you — the advance is the least valuable money you’ll ever make from a book. Real wealth comes from royalties. And when you hand over your rights, you hand over your long game.

I realized pretty quickly I was (pardon my French)…fucked.

The experience was disappointing to say the least. The dream I’d held for so long turned out to be absolutely miserable. I had become a cog in the wheel of a publishing house that felt cold and strangely lonely. They didn’t get my vision. They didn’t seem particularly interested in me as a woman or a creative. I was simply another task they tended to during their workday.

On my pub day, there was no party. No champagne toast. No bouquet of hot pink flowers at my door I had fantasized about.

There wasn’t even an email.

I missed everything about self-publishing during my time with Penguin. I missed the fat Amazon deposits arriving like clockwork every month. I missed the control. I missed the creative autonomy. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d given away something sacred in exchange for someone else’s stamp of approval.

Meanwhile, I was life coaching (a natural extension of the personal development books I was writing), and women kept showing up in my inbox with the same dream: “I want to write a book.”

At first, I’d help them by encouraging them to go for it. Over time, that expanded into coaching them through entire manuscripts, branding their concepts, helping them publish their finished books. Then my friend Amanda and I created Self-Published, which exploded and showed me — again — how hungry women were for the power and sovereignty of owning their own stories.

High-level consulting followed where I offered bespoke, deep-dive support for women who wanted to publish on their own terms. I became the woman other women came to when they wanted to write the thing that wouldn’t leave them alone — and publish it their way.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, the idea for Pink Ink arrived like magic. A dormant “how will I ever do this?” dream reawakened by one line in an email from my book-client-turned-founding-author :

“Also do I need to come up with a self publishing name ? Or do we use yours? I feel like you should totally start a hybrid publishing company for empowering chic lit we would all sign up!!!!”

Three days later, Pink Ink Press was born.

A press for the girl I was at thirteen, stapling together my own books in my bedroom. A press for the woman I became, choosing herself again and again. A press for the ones who don’t fit neatly on a publisher’s list because they were meant to build their own.

Pink Ink isn’t just a boutique publishing house. I see it as a movement. A complete and total rebellion against an industry that was never designed for women.

For decades, traditional publishing has asked women to shrink their stories, hand over their rights, sign away their royalties, wait patiently for permission, and be grateful for whatever crumbs fall from the gatekeepers’ table. I’ve lived inside that system. I know what it feels like to lose control of your own book — the thing that came through your body, your lived experience, your truth — because someone else decided what it should be.

Pink Ink is the opposite of that.

Here, women keep 100% of their rights, 100% of their royalties, and 100% of their creative sovereignty.

We’re built by women, for women.

Pink Ink disrupts the traditional publishing industry and flips the model. The author funds her book upfront, and she keeps everything after that. We give you the imprint, the direction, the brand, the ecosystem, the prestige, the spotlight, the strategy, and the community usually reserved for “chosen” authors.

Your vision leads, and we hold the container. You can find the complete Pink Ink Manifesto over on my Instagram page and — as soon as I have five minutes between reviewing manuscripts, signing new authors, and catapulting new books into the world — on our official website.

If you have a story that won’t leave you alone…words that wake you in the middle of the night…if your heart is beating a little faster when reading this, you can apply to become a Pink Ink author here.

Okay babe. I’m off to make my seventy-fifth coffee of the day and hop on the phone with a potential new author (yay!). I hope you go write something today. Even one sentence. Do it for you. And do it for us.

I love you!

xx

Cara

I’d been back in the city for five days and all I could think was: how the fuck did I do this my whole life? And how did it become my whole personality?

Rushed, early mornings. Constant noise. Cramped spaces. Crushing anxiety.

So many people.

Listen, I had a phenomenal trip. I casually launched a publishing imprint, signed two wildly talented authors (more on this later!), hosted a literary salon where people snort-laughed and cried in a candlelit castle-turned-whiskey bar deep in Brooklyn, had filthy martinis with old friends, had way too many toasted sesame bagels with family, visited all my old, dive-y haunts, weaved in and out of Soho crowds like a pro, and inhaled the kind of champagne-soaked inspiration only New York City can deliver.

But here’s what’s wild. The very energy I used to thrive on - the insane, chaotic, beautifully restless energy of this sparkling city - now felt loud. Like, too loud.

Waking up in my mom’s apartment at 6:03 AM to the blinding, wintry sun and the sound of garbage trucks beeeep-beeeep-beeeep backing up into mounds of crunchy trash while a maniacal man on 14th Street screamed bloody murder at the sky for no apparent reason made me realize something. I don’t thrive on chaos anymore.

And boy did I used to. I fucking lived for it. I literally build a brand on it! Espresso running through my veins, pacing down the block like a show horse in a black Zara blazer, head buried in emails on my phone, forever chasing the impossible standard New York holds you to.

The city has a way of making you feel a failure if you’re not being wildly productive for nineteen hours a day. It taunts you with sound of sirens if you dare take a mid-day respite on the couch. “Get up, you lazy piece of shit!” the ambulances wail outside your window, as if they’re personally invested in your success (or lack thereof). The relentless energy of the city does not gently knock. It barges through every wall, every window, every quiet thought you have that lies to you and tells you it’s okay to slow down. Because no, it’s not okay. It’s New York!

After just three months of living in Jacksonville I’ve come to adore the very things I once thought would be the death of me. Slow mornings that smell like cinnamon coffee and newspaper ink. A luxurious, open schedule. Softness. A relationship and family that I am happy to be fully present for. Not half-there.

I had this fear when I got down here. That I’d lose who I was in New York. I’d lose the girl who wrote ten books and never stopped creating and built an empire from a very chaotic place - both internally and externally. I was terrified that I’d lose my edge, my drive, myself.

But I am more than a place.

And let’s be honest, I’m never going to not speed walk.

This last trip to the city reminded me that being alive is an inside job. It does not need to feed off the frenetic energy of millions of other people, it can be still, it can be certain. It can be mine.

I’ve also realized one home does not need to be better than the other. I can love New York, in all her iconic, unhinged greatness, and I can love Jacksonville for the calm and peace she brings me, even though I resisted it for so long.

I can extract what I need from both; without fear and without guilt.

And maybe they’re not so different after all. Last night, we had caviar tater tots at a French restaurant near our house in Jacksonville.

And I’m just gonna say it - they were better than the ones in New York.

But it’s 2:14 AM and I can’t sleep and I’m watching clips of influencers on Instagram at New York Fashion Week from my bed in Florida and I am suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of homesickness that I am feeling for the first time since moving to Jacksonville a month ago.

It’s 2:14 AM and the hum of the air conditioner is keeping me company as I watch these 20-something girls traipsing through my city in cool clothes and I know exactly which corner they are filming their reels on and know the air smells like fall and I am sad.

But I am also really, really happy.

The past 30 days have been a whirlwind of excitement and newness and overwhelm and holy shit what the fuck just happened? I blew up my life in New York to come start a new one with my fiancé and his three daughters. I’m suddenly driving (as in, me, the queen of Uber Black is now behind the wheel lol) to the record store on a random Monday afternoon and going bowling on the beach with my teenage stepdaughters and discovering new dive bars with my man and I’m in love with this life but boy is it different!

I’ve been riding waves of pure bliss and total grief for my old self under the blistering sun and I almost cried after my lash appointment yesterday (which is now $60 cheaper than my New York lash appointment).

Because it is not just the location I have changed. It’s the woman.

I’ve been navigating the desperate need for privacy as a writer and a creative with a house full of family that I adore with every inch of my heart. My computer, which used to sit in the middle of my sprawling 750 square foot apartment that was only occupied by me, is now in the corner of our dining room in an 1100 square foot home that is occupied by 4 people half the time. My work is on display unless I’m home alone which is rare and it feels like my diary is cracked open on the dining room table at all times.

I’m also learning what it feels like to comfort my 12-year-old stepdaughter after school when her dad is working and it’s just the two of us in the kitchen sharing a Dr. Pepper while she tells me about her friend drama and I feel like my whole heart could explode right there because it is me she’s coming to for emotional safety.

I’ve been realizing I can’t just open my door and be flooded with art and weirdos and the hot pink neon energy that used to feed my creativity 24 hours a day. What do you mean I have to search for inspriation? What do you mean I need to summon it like a vision from a chain-smoking street psychic who promises she can tell you whether or not you’ll be pregnant this year if you just Venmo her $50?

But with all of that comes one long exhale. A life rooted in family, spaciousness, and time (the greatest luxury of all). A life where I am not surviving (New York) but instead thinking intently on how I actually want to thrive.

A world where my paid Substack subscribers cover the bills — thank you if that’s you! A world where I can turn down work that doesn’t feel aligned and instead finally give myself a chance to take creative risks (like finally learning to DJ!) because there is no longer the massive weight of a financial burden just to cover my rent and New York lifestyle.

A world where after-dinner drives by the water under a cotton candy pink sunset are no longer something you get to indulge in once a year on vacation, but instead woven into the fabric of your every day life.

And the best part — the catalyst for all this change — getting to build a life with the man I came here to be with. The partner I have chosen and the person I left all that chaos for. It is beautiful and it is thrilling and it is hard and it is all worth it.

On Sundays in our home we only listen to vinyl records. No Spotify is allowed. Aaron and I take turns choosing a record. As he went to make a second cup of coffee this past weekend, I picked up my 1986 vintage Madonna True Blue album, placed it on the turntable and dropped the needle. I can’t really explain what happened to me when I heard those first notes of Papa Don’t Preach but I can tell you it’s the closest I’ve come to my old self in a minute.

On Saturday I fly back to New York for the weekend to see family and friends and get my hair colored. I’m ready to bitch about how filthy Avenue A is and drain my bank account on overpriced wine and I’m already ready to get back on that plane, send a text to Aaron and tell him “I’m taking off!” and know that in two hours, I will still be the same woman.

Some days I’ll recognize her. Some days I won’t. But no matter what, I know that on either side of that flight, I have people who love every version of me. Even when I’m not sure who that is yet.

That apartment was flawless. All white, with the most breathtaking 46th floor view of Manhattan one could ever dream of, three doormen who wore tailored Italian suits, a motor court, and an NBA basketball court (with NBA player neighbors to match).

I had every waking moment to myself. I could call an Uber Black to take me uptown to shop at Bergdorf’s for the afternoon. I could float down the block to the city’s hottest new natural wine bar whenever the mood struck me.

And I was fucking miserable.

Even though I had all the shiny things, from the freedom to the fabulous apartment, I was…alone.

Sure I had friends and of course my family but when it came to my love life, things felt empty. Really empty.

I got divorced because I felt alone in my marriage, and I still felt alone.

There were men around. I dated. Flirted. I had a situationship that lingered way too long. But I missed having a real partner. I missed really loving someone and being loved in return.

That feeling of being in a loving, healthy relationship is one of the best feelings on earth. It’s easy to lie to ourselves and say we don’t want it when it’s not there. It’s easy to proudly declare we’re de-centering men and all men suck and we don’t need anyone.

I’ve told myself all of these things. I’ve even tried to believe them. But the truth was, I missed being in love. I wanted a partner in life. And, somewhere, deep inside me, the woman who swore she never wanted kids kind of, maybe, almost, longed for a family.

I’m about to list the bistro set on Facebook Marketplace which oddly reminds me of a dating app. A bunch of messages that begin with Is this still available? and then poof — silence.

I am thinking about the life of this bistro set. I am thinking about the life I lived in that sleek apartment. I am thinking about the life where I spent many mornings and many evenings refreshing those dating apps. I am thinking about the silence.

And I am thinking about the life I am stepping into now…

There’s no need for this bistro set in my new life. Because I’ve gone from Party of One in Manhattan to Party of Five in Florida (plus a cat and a rescue dog) and my past feels unrecognizable in the best way. I’m ready to ghost it, which is strange considering how long I clung to it.

A long distance relationship would be hard for anyone. But imagine a long distance relationship for a 40-something divorced single bitch from NYC? We are our own kind of animal. Hyper-independent. Fiercely free. Clad in head-to-toe designer black clothing no matter what the season, we’re most often found in the wild in one of two scenarios: trudging down the street with fifteen pounds of Whole Foods organic groceries or perched on a bar stool drinking overpriced French wine. And we’re always doing it all on our own. We’re the main character every day and every night.

Even when we don’t want to be.

So when the love I prayed for finally found me, I was elated. And even though I wanted that love, really wanted that love, that love was…inconvenient. It was five states away. It came with a built-in family. It came with the caveat that if I wanted to it to work, I’d have to change some things about my life — like everything.

And for a long time, that terrified me. Who would I be if I gave up New York City? Had stepchildren? Lived in a big, suburban home? Had (gasp) a husband? What would happen to Cara? (and shit, would she need to learn how to drive!?)

For a long time, it felt like it was either love, or my identity. So I pushed the love away. I told him it wasn’t going to work. I took our fights and turned them into grand finales. I tried to move on. To come back to myself. But it was too late.

I had already changed. My soul knew long before my brain caught up that the love — and the life — I was convinced was holding me back was actually the very thing that was expanding me. It was opening me up to a love far deeper than I ever imagined I was capable of.

A love that requires showing up. Literally. Traveling thousands of miles just to be in the same room together. And now that we’re engaged, hauling my entire life (sans bar stools) to a whole different state.

A love that is not always about me (shocking lol). A love that requires me to put my ego aside for the good of the relationship.

A love that has taught me about forgiveness. A love that has taught me that we all fuck up sometimes.

A love that has taught me that running away might feel like relief in the moment, but facing our stuff together feels so much better.

A love where I am not just showing up for myself, but for a family. For three teenaged girls that look up to me. For guidance. For advice. For inspiration.

When my fiancé proposed, after he gave me the ring, he also gave me three handwritten letters. One from each of his daughters, telling me why they want me to be their stepmom. I’ve read these letters every single day since. They have pushed me in a way I never knew I could be pushed. They have made me want to be the best woman and role model I can possibly be. For them.

Someone asked me on Instagram the other day, “Why don’t you keep your place in New York, just to have something for yourself? I hate to see women give up their lives for a man.”

And honestly, I may have thought the same thing a few years ago. But now I know. I’m not giving up anything. I’m getting everything I ever wanted. Even the things I didn’t know I did.

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It’s easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, she wrote.

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I typed the last line of Don’t Do Anything I Wouldn’t Do, and then I just sat there, staring at the words, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. And then, out of nowhere, I started sobbing.

I wiped the fat, wet tears from my Nars-highlighted cheekbones, gathered myself, and then came the next heart-stopping moment: hitting send. I submitted the manuscript to my designer a few days later, and as I watched the email disappear into the abyss of the internet, my hands trembled. I had poured everything - everything - into this book. It wasn’t just a story. It was my life. The messy, unfiltered, unapologetic chaos of the last five years. In one, neat, 91-page Google doc.

Here it is, in its Staples-bound glory!

Then, I did the thing that scared me even more. I shared it with my close network. Please don’t cringe at the sex scenes, lol, I texted my mom after I emailed her the file. The people who know me, who have seen me at my strongest and at my most shattered. I braced myself. What if they didn’t get it? What if it wasn’t enough?

But here’s the thing I’ve learned about telling the truth… It’s always enough.

But I didn’t always know that. There was a time I second-guessed every single thing I wrote. I’d sit there, staring at my screen, wondering if I was saying too much. If I sounded stupid. If my stories even mattered.

I wish I had someone back then to look me in the eye and say: Keep going. Say the fucking crazy thing. Write it all down. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.

And that’s how Hot Girl Memoir was born.

Because if I needed it, I know other women do, too.

Women who have something to say but don’t know where to start. Women who have lived through it and are ready to put their stories on the page—not perfectly, just honestly. Women who feel a pull toward writing but need the courage (and the permission) to go all in.

This isn’t a fancy writing course. It’s not about “craft” or the “right way” to write a story. Because I actually think all of that is bullshit (just look at the run-on sentences that have helped me sell hundreds of thousands of books).

It’s about you, finally saying the things you need to say. On your Substack. In an essay. On your Instagram. In your diary—wherever it needs to live.

We’re meeting for two days. That’s it. No long commitment. No overwhelm. Just two power-packed sessions where we’ll get your words out of you and onto the page.

I don’t care if you’ve been writing for years or if you’ve never written a word in your life—if something inside you is whispering this is for me, trust it.

Class starts March 9. If you’re ready, I want you in this room with me.

We’re almost sold out, but I have a few spots left. Grab yours here.

Here’s to the unfiltered, the unapologetic, and the undeniably powerful women we are.

XO,
Cara

Stay with me. When Sex and The City first aired in 1998, television had never seen a show with a female protagonist like Sarah Jessica Parker’s character. She was messy and self-destructive but she was also living the New York dream. A magazine columnist with a rent-controlled Manhattan apartment, a closet full of fabulous clothes that only she could ever pull off (despite the constant attempts by the girlies on TikTok), and a group of supportive, Cosmopolitan-drinking friends who always had each other’s backs. Sure, she was chasing Big all around town (believe me, I also cringe every single time I see her in that church scene), and yes she was pretty shitty to Aiden (but he was kind of a dick at times too, let’s be real). But very thing that made us all fall so in love with Carrie was the fact that she was a mirror.

We’ve all chased an emotionally unavailable man. We’ve all pushed away the nice guy. And in 1999, those were pretty much the extent of our relationship woes.

But the dating landscape has changed and things are more confusing than ever these days. Dating apps have completely revolutionized romance by providing endless options which can feel dehumanizing. Ethical non-monogamy and polyamory have now taken starring roles in the world of relationships (which is a fresh hell for anyone with an anxious attachment style). And it feels like people’s unapologetic expectations of one other has made dating feel like more of an exhausting war zone than a flirtatious playground. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucking tired and angry. It’s not fun anymore!

And now, with our shiny new rule books and therapy-speak, we’re quick to shit all over Carrie for her unhinged ways, and maybe that’s because it’s easier to hate on a fictional character than really unpack the version of ourselves that is just as confused as she was back then. (It’s like the blind leading the blind, isn’t it Sam?)

In her essay, Carri Bradshaw Lied to Me, the author writes about evolving past the flaws that made Carrie so relatable. She suggests that “love shouldn’t look like uncertainty” and while I see where she’s going with this, I want to offer another point of view — maybe love doesn’t have one definition. Maybe, just maybe, love is whatever it means to you.

As a 44-year old woman who spent the entirety of my 20’s in a serious (yet tumutuous) relationship, was then married to a wonderful man for ten years and divorced with no drama (we simply grew apart and still remain great friends), and has since dated many men both short and long term, I think I’m in a position to say that relationships are extremely personal and nuanced. Barring physical and emotional abuse, I really don’t think it’s anyone’s business to judge, dictate, or define what relationships should look like. In fact, I’ll take this a step further and tell you that I think our relationship karma is a deeply spiritual assignment.

Sure, it would be lovely to tell that fuck boy to fuck off the first time he tells you he doesn’t want to commit to you after you’ve been having weekly sleep overs and dinner dates for a month. It would be great to feel absolutely nothing when the love of your life’s name pops up on your phone on random Thursday night three months after you’ve broken up. But we aren’t robots. We’re women. We feel deeply and we love hard. It’s a fantasy to think we can approach love with a playbook — maybe even more of a fantasy than Carrie living in a $700 a month New York City apartment.

I’m in no way suggesting we settle for subpar men, or remain in relationships that bleed us dry. But I am a hopeful romantic who at my core truly believes in love, even when I’m on my man-hating 4B energy (IYKYK). And with the pursuit of love comes some messy moments. It comes with making mistakes (sometimes usually twice). It comes with endlessly forgiving ourselves.

One thing I love about Carrie? She owns it. She knows we’re going to fuck up and she is wise enough to know that those moments are the ones that shape us. Her quote from Season 6 has stayed with me forever: “Maybe mistakes are what make our fate... without them what would shape our lives? Maybe if we had never veered off course we wouldn't fall in love, have babies, or be who we are.”

And what I love most about her? Girlfriend knows how to reflect. Her iconic computer moments where she couldn’t help but wonder are what made the show was it was — a place for us to contemplate relationships. I’d argue Carrie wasn’t as crazy as the internet thinks. She was simply figuring out who she was and what she wanted. Aren’t we all?

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PS - If you’re also a Carrie, then be sure to check out my latest book, Don’t Do Anything I Would Do. It’s out in paperback soon but you can get a sneak peek of my own unhinged tales right here on my Substack.

We did all th…

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I don’t think there is anything I love more at the moment than doing readings. The theme of the series is desire so I chose a piece which may or may not make it into my forthcoming book, Don’t Do Anything I Would Do.

I typically know what I’m going to read weeks (or at least days) before a reading. But last night’s essay was a game time decision. Part of me wanted to read something I had read over the summer at Generation Women, but as I read it again yesterday morning it just wasn’t resonating with me — at all. More on that in the video below.

So I decided to go with Ghosts (as I’m now referring to it) and I could not have been happier. Not only was the piece more emotional, but it paid homage to the East Village, with mentions of many of its bars and streets so I felt it was appropriate considering where the reading was being held.

I arrived early, as I always do, and posted up at Bua, a bar directly across the street. Over a glass of champagne, I did a few more read throughs for practice.

As soon as I got to Ten Degrees, I took note of how dimly lit it was. And quickly realized these 43-year old eyeballs were going to struggle reading off my paper. Another game time decision was made — I was going to read off my phone.

Samantha Mann, another author who read last night (she is fabulous, by the way) assured me that the Gen Z crowd only reads from their phones, plus I saw Alex Dimitrov do it at his poetry reading at KGB, so I felt confident in my decision. And let me tell you, it was so much easier.

I saw some familiar faces in the crowd which made me feel even more comfortable and I paced through my essay perfectly with no fumbles and no anxiety — a first for me!

Even though I’ve been publishing my books for a decade and I speak in public constantly, I only started doing book readings this year and BOY are they are different! Especially when you’re reading such personal content. So I felt really proud about last night. And I can’t wait to do it again.

Here are some clips of our author talk Rachel from Wine + Pine held after the readings:

Talking about the difference between writing about business and love:

Thank you again to everyone who came out last night! You have no idea how much your support means to me!

Until the next one.

xx