At the end of 2019, I started a daily writing practice that grew and changed as I needed it too—sometimes including morning pages (that I typed—don’t tell Julie Cameron—my big dumb morning hand cannot always keep up with my big dumb morning thoughts), sometimes other exercises, but always on a laptop. This means I’ve been known to bring my laptop with me on trips that might be better served without a computer: Holiday vacations to visit family, Alaska adventures, and a three day rager1 in Vegas.

I love my routines! They give my otherwise chaotic life a bit of shape and help me achieve goals. But when we embarked on our BWCA trip, and I suspected that bringing a laptop in a dry bag might be frowned upon, so instead I muttered, “But my routines!” while gnawing on my cuticles until I realized human beings have not always used computers to turn their inside thoughts into outside thoughts.

I went fully analog last week and like most things, I let it stress me out. In order to hype myself up for some analog creativity, I purchased a notebook the worst dude you knew in college had (hardback moleskine), a few dozen pens in case one stopped working, and stuffed them in a waterproof bag to haul across some giant lakes with me. I refreshed myself on Lynda Barry’s Syllabus (a gift from my partner several years ago that I return to again and again) and gave myself some assignments for the road.

I had some loose expectations of what I would work on, how I might feel blocked while I was away from my number one source of inspiration (the horrors of the world at large/the internet) and made a list of things I could do when I was feeling stuck.

I did not feel stuck. Not ever. I was able to write each morning and frequently also in the afternoon and was never at a loss. In fact, my expectations completing any kind of assignments completely fell away as I scrawled thoughts about narratives that formed as we were exploring the wilderness by canoe. I carried a canoe on my back for the first time, ate reconstituted eggs, and navigated my period during a thunder storm in the backwoods where I had to pack in/pack out all my menstrual accouterments.2 I am become nature. Nature is me.

The most unexpected fun I had was drawing, which I am remarkably terrible at and truly enjoy. I had a pencil, but I never once used it, because seeing my mistakes is half the fun.

Drawing is humbling, for sure, but it was also FUN. My loon looks like a goth pool toy? Incredible. My pocket knife looks weirdly like toothpaste? Why not? No one’s going to hold this against me. I’m not a visual artist, I’m just a fool with a pen and too much time.

I knew I would appreciate time away from my phone and my favorite tormenter (the internet) but I was surprised by how little brain space either of those things took up. Over five days, I left my phone on airplane mode and it became a camera for the trip (and a secondary one, as my other camera was also analog), but never once did I think, “I bet there’s a cool trend happening on Instagram that I can do when I get back.” Or, “Sure wish Instagram could bait me to a funny thread right now.” Or, “I wonder what people are emailing me about right now.” I mostly thought things like, “Maybe I should drink a little less water so I don’t have to filter more.” Or, “The way the sun is hitting that tree is so pretty. Oh, it just changed. It changed again. Again. Again. Again.”

The week of analog was disruptive, but I need a little constructive disruption every now and then. On Sunday I struggled to find my place in my work from the week prior and stumbled through a substack draft, finding my way back to clicky-clacky words and brief, satisfying edits.

I came back to a civilized world without Dolly Parton3, which is hardly a civilized world at all, but I may adopt a biannual analog week in the future, just to help reset and get in touch with a satisfying tactile process of being a human being interacting with paper and pen.

When do you work in analog? When MUST you embrace the digital? Have you ever drawn a beaver swimming? Tell me everything.

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I’ve been making time lapses of my writing time. So many time lapses of me, sitting in front of my laptop. Staring at my screen. Typing at my screen. Screaming/crying/throwing up at my screen.

(Not shown: throwing up at my screen. These are made for the ‘gram, so please forgive their horizontal nature)

These videos are far from compelling to watch, (though I personally love to watch them) but assigning my phone a duty that cannot be interrupted has several benefits.

• It’s inaccessible. My phone is very busy watching me work, so no, it cannot check my email, help me fret about the air quality index, or show me a cute animal I’ll never meet irl.

• It’s my audience, which makes me more judicious with my time. I’m less likely to navigate out of a document to see if that sick pantsuit is on sale while my phone is watching me dump words into a document that is probably mostly jokes about my anxiety.

• It’s creating potential CONTENT™ for me to use later.

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Prior to casting my phone as a film crew, if I needed to look something up real quick, check the weather, or track the package for a thing I ordered last night at 9PM, I reached for my phone and my too-smart-for-my-own-good muscle memory took me to a scrollable something where I spent fifteen minutes brow-furrowing over a carousel about which produce is going to liquify my intestines this week. But if my phone is making time lapse, I cannot interrupt it. It’s busy. I’m busy. I’m working on something while having acceptable posture. And I have proof.

The proof is perhaps most satisfying to me. Writing as a process and a practice takes much longer with far fewer tangible results than the movies would have you believe.

Creative endeavors take massive amounts of time, even though we live in an age where we’re encouraged to feed a prompt into a thirsty robot that takes seconds to spool out a lifeless chunk of words no one wants to read. But a time lapse is proof I was here. Doing the work. Which isn’t always obvious when the work that day was two hours of rewriting the same paragraph about which body part I gnawed on while I was procrastinating finding a new PCP.

There’s vanity at play here, surely. One of the oldest Millennial burns is that we’re obsessed with our own image. But given what I look like in the mornings, there can’t be THAT MUCH vanity. Elizabeth Gilbert has a passage in Big Magic on dressing for the muse—she’ll dress intentionally, put on lipstick, and shave her legs to get ready to write and I… don’t do that. I roll out of bed and sometimes put pants on. Most days I’m here with stinky breath and unsupported boobs while my writing practice nudges me awake. If I had to look good to write, I would never write because I would spend two hours in the bathroom, stressed out over whether the muse would prefer a tasteful heel with the dark plum lipstick or the cowboy boots and a nude lip. Maybe the muse would want me to “do” my “hair?” But I haven’t “done” my “hair” since 2013 and my flat iron is now a fire hazard and wait, I’m late for work? I would ghost the muse daily.

Just because I’m not getting hot n’ flirty for the muse, doesn’t mean there isn’t ritual or habit involved, it’s just not about looking good. It’s about diminishing friction between myself and the work. I have a check list of what to work on in the morning from the day prior. I have a stack of emotional support sticky notes. My computer is charged, on, and opened to the items I intend to work on. My laptop has the time and date hidden because that’s none of my business as I try to trick my brain into a flow state1. And my phone has a job that isn’t distracting me. The work is hard enough, so I remove as many obstacles as I can. Lord knows I still find plenty of ways to get in my own way.

(Me, not ghosting the muse, but definitely not trying too hard for her, either.)

When it comes to CONTENT™ time lapses of me sitting in front of a screen are not driving hoards of followers to me, and I’m okay with that. The end looks just like the beginning: an unwashed nerd touching her face a lot in front of a screen. You could assume that you may eventually read what I wrote during that session, but it’s not going to look like it did when I put it down. I love time lapses because I think they’re interesting. I do them and post them because it’s pleasing to me2, and while I don’t think it’s “building my platform” (barf) and it’s a far cry from “original”, it’s been an intrinsic practice to putting down my fucking phone, which is much more important. The sense of having an audience (my phone—mostly an extension of myself) keeps me honest in the work I’m doing. My phone is my accountabilabuddy. She’s babysitting me.

That’s not to say I haven’t seen time lapse content done very well. My friend Peels recently posted one that I and many others adored. She recorded both herself and her screen as she drafted, which exposed her audience not only to her clocking in for the work, but also HOW she was working, which felt very vulnerable to me (though I will be clear, the way Peels works is very normal and appropriate—it’s just not what we see represented in media regularly. SJP could never!)

I am not so bold. I will often make my screen visible so you can see the words filling the page, but to see my literal words/typos/idiot ideas appear on the page in real time? These words took so many tries to suck less. Not everyone’s journey is, “Re-write a paragraph twelve times before you delete it because you realize it doesn’t fit this piece.” But mine is.

Substack just installed an AI screener before you hit publish on what’s presumably a thing you just wrote, making the mundanity of process feel more important to share than ever. There’s nothing glamorous about getting up and sitting in front of a screen for a few hours before I go to work. But there’s something important to me about proof of the quiet devotion of practice. Even if it’s just for me.

• Split their time between living on a little sail boat on the Hudson river and creating genre-defying part-theater/part-games from their basement studio on Massachusetts…

• Give unsolicited but very welcome garden updates…

• Play your detached and mostly absent Dad grilling you some corn on instagram stories…

• Has once been one of one hundred Andre Agassis for a flash mob…

That’s not a cool character in an A24 movie, that’s Nicole Orabona!

Welcome to a Cult of Friday interview. I know very cool people and I’m tired of hogging them all to myself so I’m thrilled to introduce you to someone I love and admire: Nicole Orabona.

Nicole and I met in undergrad, where we both studied theater and listened to a lot of tenured white men tell us what was good and not good while many women in (mostly) adjunct positions encouraged us to be curious, weirder, and louder.

I asked Nicole to zoom hang with me for ninety minutes so we could chat art, work, and the unending intersections therein. They dialed in from their sail boat on the Hudson river, where yes, they live part time with their partner (and perfect cat, Commodore Welcome), to chat about how they’re making art and feeding themselves while not losing their mind.

Here are some highlights from my conversation with Nicole:

What Nicole makes:

NO: My partner Nathan and I, with our company cirqueSaw, make online interactive and immersive experiences that are on the line of theater and game. So they prioritize audience agency, are co-created with the audience but are not immersive in the way that Sleep No More is immersive, where you show up to a venue and the world is already built around you and you don’t have any say in the story. We like giving people the ability to change the story.

We’re part of a group of people creating a new medium and we don’t know what to call it. Nathan and I have started calling it cooperative remote experiences. Some people call it playable theater. Someone just wrote a dissertation on interactive and immersive remote work calling it gameable theater.

How Nicole is funding their artistic work:

NO: My full time job1 is grant writing, residency research, promoting the work for cirqueSaw and that takes a lot of time. In an ideal world one of these grants will come through and I won’t have to have a day job. My primary side job has been social media management for other people: artists, B2B, B2C2 and it’s changed a lot over 10 years. The internet and social media culture has changed so much and it’s a lot harder to do this job now just because being on social media is harder.

My current day-job requirements are:

• Remote

• Flexible hours

• Something without high-level thinking. I’d rather be responsible for community management (on social media) than doing the strategy behind a brand. It means my brain can be used for high level things elsewhere.

So many jobs right now are to train AI, which I don’t want to do. I just want to exchange time for a fair amount of money and I want clear boundaries about when I’m expected to work.

I spent many years working in bars and restaurants, being told that that was the perfect match—that bars and restaurants are so flexible and you’ll have plenty of time to do your creative work outside of that. But I found it wasn’t flexible at all. And it’s so hard on your body, it’s just exhausting.

(Editor’s note: Nicole is currently looking for work! So if you know anything that fits those requirements and want to share, let her know!)

How they take care of their art and themselves in Times Like These™:

cirqueSaw has a Discord community that we started as a place for technical support for online shows and it turned into the bar that you hang out in after the show because as a virtual show, there was no bar after the show.

In winter of 2025 we started The Daily Art Prompt in our Discord. Every day we put in a prompt and the rules are:

• Any medium

• Any genre

• Only take an hour to make (or less)

• You can remix other people’s work as long as you credit them

• Can never be a competition

It’s been really cool to make the community bond stronger and as the leaders of that community, we need to be putting our prompts in every day. Sometimes I take a full hour, sometimes it’s five or ten minutes. Sometimes it’s a doodle, a poem, watercolor, collage—and it’s been really cool because it allows me to practice technique.

I started making zines because they overturned Roe v. Wade and I was really mad. I wanted to make a community piece of art that had a bunch of people’s anger in it and use it to raise funds to send to abortion funds. My artwork—zines especially—are tied to a desire to raise funds for causes I’m passionate about and to have a collaborative art form.

In 2020, being a theater artist—someone who needed collaborative art making and was suddenly isolated—I was looking for ways to collaborate from afar, so zines became that. I’d request artwork and people would send it to me and now we have this piece of art that we made together from afar. So that was borne out of a desire to collaborate and to raise funds for good.

Watercolor too, I needed a place to make bad art. Especially when you’re an artist for a living, it’s important to have a practice that’s not tied to any form of commerce or money and you can just be really bad at it. I started doing water coloring because it’s relaxing and forgiving.

But when you start practicing making bad art every day your art starts to get better because, and I regret to tell you this, but apparently the only way to get better at something is to just keep doing it?

The ethics of making:

We had an early retreat (for cirqueSaw) where we knew we wanted to make our own stuff and because we were frustrated with the opportunities that we were being offered or not being offered and we sat down and tried to make a budget. We never want to make work where we can’t compensate other artists at a living wage and when we looked at how much money that would require, we didn’t have that much money so we knew we could only do things that the two of us could make together.

Nathan (Nicole’s parter) has an incredible suite of technical skills as an animator, coder, and designer. So I needed to learn how to be a producer because he already had the brunt of the labor on his plate. It’s a steep learning curve—shout out to all the art school hotties who never learned how to manage budget or use a spreadsheet and now are like, “Well I guess I have to learn that.”

A budget is an ethical document. A majority of our budget goes to creative labor. We haven’t been paying ourselves for the creative labor for the last couple years. We also aren’t in debt because we don’t make anything beyond our means. We just don’t pay ourselves for the creative process. Whatever money we get pays for our performances. But if/when we get funding, we want to put it towards the people who are making the work and that’s just not the case most of the time, in the commercial world.

How Nicole’s growing:

When I was younger every opportunity was THE opportunity and I couldn’t say no to anything. I had to say yes to everything and each job was always, “Oh, one more thing.” Now when I’m in a show and they try to add a rehearsal that wasn’t in the contract, I say no. I’m not available.

The boundaries for creative labor:

If it pays well, I’m probably going to say yes. If it’s not paying well, it has to fit into some other things:

• Who’s working on it? Is it people I know and love and want to spend time with?

• Will it ACTUALLY further my career? Most of the time in my youth I thought, “It always will!” That’s not the case any more.

• I love the role or the concept or the material.

It has to fit at least two of the above three if it doesn’t pay well.

Where you can find more of Nicole:

cirqueSaw’s Website

cirqueSaw’s Instagram

Nicole’s Instagram (incredible garden updates and occasional Dad grilling)

labRats, cirqueSaw’s flagship touring show (I loved this one, highly recommend there’s a show tonight and they perform it several times monthly!)

Nine Days in a Van with Three Best Friends, which will be featured in the 32nd Annual Interactive Fiction Competition, live in September!

You can also find them in Peacock’s Poker Face, Law & Order, and Hulu’s Fleishman is in Trouble

I’m adding interviews to the regular rotation! Are you a creative person surviving capitalism and want to be interviewed? Is there someone you want to read an interview with? Let me know.

“I’m glad you were paying attention because I sure wasn’t!” said the fifty-something woman in the plant nursery parking lot as I was getting out of my car she’d nearly reversed into. I did the thing I always do when someone says something to me that makes me want to punch them—grinned and looked at the ground while lightly chuckling. She smiled, radiated some compost at me, and floated into the greenhouse.

I had just parked at a local nursery, where I was picking up some plant starts. Moments earlier, as I waited to park behind this crunchy granola queen, she had a change of heart as to her preferred parking spot, threw her minivan in reverse and with nary a glance into her rearview, gunned it, nearly ramming my hood with her rear fender. I evaded an accident only because the minivan was radiating, “I am indecisive and dangerous” vibes and I opted to risk staying in the driveway off a busy road instead of pulling into the spot she had rolled past.

I don’t have as many hot takes as I’d like. Decades of training myself to being the chillest girl in the room has done this to me, but when I do have a hot take, it is a rage-filled, vengeful, fiery thing that easily teeters into absurd. And among my hottest is that it’s too easy to get a driver’s license and most people currently driving shouldn’t have one.

The reaction from the lady who looked like a patchouli ad sends me off. The flippant admission of, “I’m a terrible driver—no big deal!” as though it’s akin to being a slow runner or baffled my math is worthy of my fury. My algebra is rusty, but I’m not going to cause bodily harm or death to someone because I incorrectly assessed the Chicago train traveling at 30 mph would arrive to Minneapolis sooner than the Sacramento train traveling at 80 mph (please don’t check my math on this—it won’t kill you).

1.9 million people die annually in car-related accidents. Up to 44,000 of those deaths occur in the United States1 (this is, unfortunately, almost identical to the amount of people who died due to gun related injuries in the US in 20242). Cars are two-ton weapons and if you are bad at operating one, it’s your civic responsibility to learn to be a better driver or to stop driving. I SAID WHAT I SAID.

This rant easily sways into another, less-hot take I have: we need more, faster, and better public transit all over this giant country3. I suspect if far fewer people had access to driving cars (because my demands would render them license-less), we would quickly find innovative ways to grow our public transit.

Most of us learn to drive a good ten years before our frontal lobe is fully formed and in one, specific setting. When I moved from Idaho to Philadelphia, do you think I had to take a new test—written or otherwise— to drive my friends home from a show in Brooklyn at 10PM on a Saturday night4? I did not! Yet is driving through Brooklyn at 10PM on a Saturday night the same thing as driving anywhere in Idaho?

We’re also culturally bad at paying attention. If you ever find yourself with too much faith in humanity, try standing on the sidewalk of a busy intersection and counting how many drivers speed by you while staring at their phones. Some of these people are probably reading work emails, some are checking instagram, and I promise a few are playing candy crush. They’re also assuming full “control” over a heavy, fast box of metal that could end a full-sized human in milliseconds.

The good news? Just kidding, there isn’t any! Cars are getting safer FOR PEOPLE IN THEM ONLY. Pedestrian deaths in the US have skyrocketed since 2009, maybe in part due to smartphones, but according to the recent NYT study (gift link), has even more to do with the truck and SUV as luxury phenomenon.

Don’t worry though, I have a fix.

My Demands:

• Every driver will retake their driving tests, practical and written, every ten years. Once they hit sixty, every five years.

• Drivers will take a new driving test, practical and written, every time they move states or from a population amount that differs from their original location by 25%. Yes—even if you move from a large city to a small town.

• No jail time (abolish prisons), but an immediate loss of your license for five years if you are engaged it any kind of distracted driving.

• Governments at a municipal, state, and federal level will collaborate with urban planners to devise new methods of transit for all the people the above demands will cause to lose their license.

• The auto and cell phone industries will collaborate so smart phones only operate navigation apps, music/audio books, or emergency calls when your vehicle is on.

• All drivers will magically accept and full comprehend the responsibility of being in control of a 2-ton-minimum vehicle that can kill people.

In case it sounds like I think I am an exceptional, better-than-everyone driver who would pass all these points with flying colors each time, here’s some context: I got my learning permit at 14.5-years-old (Idaho laws were WILD, baby) and prior to turning 18 accrued three reckless driving tickets (speeding tickets for 20 mph+ over the limit). I was once referred to as “Tokyo Drift” by a cast mate as I drove the 2002 Dodge Caravan through rural Idaho to perform Shakespeare for high school students. I have never caused or been in an accident, and my frontal lobe did finally come in (I think?), but I need these rules, too.

I am now a fine driver, but I’m not as good as I’d like to be. And for someone who hates cars as a cultural touchstone, I’m embarrassed to admit that I LOVE DRIVING. I would bitch and moan about having to retake a test every time I moved or aged. I would likely lose my license under my own demands, but maybe that’s what I want! Give me a trolly to take up the hill over another trip to the gas station. Give me bike routes that are separate from pedestrian routes and car routes because so many people need them. Normalize getting to work pink and sweaty because you biked there!

Maybe we can argue about schedules now. I’d love that, thanks for bringing it up. Public transit has a reputation for unreliability, and no one—especially me—wants to be late. I was once three weeks late to my own birth and I have learned my lesson! I am famously not chill about being late—it’s one of my least favorite of my traits. After living in Philadelphia, a city infamous for it’s many forms of SEPTA (South Eastern Pennsylvania Transit System) I started learning to give folks a little more grace for tardiness. Just other people though—I’m still relentless and cruel with myself about being on time. Public transit is good at teaching us that journeys take time, are not always in our control, and are part of living. And do you know what you can usually do safely while you’re running late on public transit? Text someone that you’re running late.

I now live in a city of about 80,000. When it was founded there was a serviceable trolley system, but once cars became widely accessible (Henry Ford ruined this country and I’ll never forgive him), the trolly became disused and eventually dismantled. There are a few bike lanes and a serviceable bus, but my work expectations (errands to hardware stores, onsite care, and nurseries where people might frontally rear-end me) require me to spend more time in a car than I’d like which provides me with ample time to think about how poorly people drive and how exposed pedestrians are to harm.

My demands are unreasonable. We are many years and several mindset shifts away from altering our cultural ideal that each person has a car that takes them wherever/whenever they desire. I know it would be a nightmare if we implemented my demands and hundreds of thousands of shitty drivers suddenly couldn’t get to a grocery store because we’ve built this country around cars instead of humans. But it’s my birthday. And I’m being unreasonable as a little treat.

I love a goal, a structure, and a reason to build out a new spreadsheet. But we’re halfway through the year, recovering from (or still in) cross-country heatwaves, and I’m taking a looser approach to a quarterly check in: A list of accomplishments and failures! Before anyone freaks out about how negative it is to focus on failing, a reminder that failing is important and we’ve really lost the plot on it as a culture (myself included). No one is out there nailing a perfect ten on their first, second, or eighth try on anything. And when they do, that’s luck, not accomplishment.

When it comes to goal-making, I’m all about setting an intention in order to try something. So even if I reach the end of the year and, for example, don’t end up writing for a full two hours daily (averaged), sure that’s a failure, but I bet I’ll have written more than I would have without setting any goal at all, which is a secret accomplishment.

Below are my accomplishments and failures based only on the vibes of casual reflection on the last six months in my personal, professional, and cat mother-dom life.

The Accomplishments:

• Joined a writing group

• Got feedback on my book proposal

• Had people over for dinner at our house that we were not related to

• Successfully used wireless printing in my house and at work

• Absolutely dominated an entire sleeve of Biscoff sandwich cookies before getting them home from the grocery store. Twice.

• Planted a garden. (Loose terminology—I planted a few planter boxes)

• Contributed to my local economy by splurging on pastries, donuts, and $250 worth of books, among others

  

• Gone to the gym three times a week since March and have not made it my whole personality (yet)

• Didn’t buy a single book in June. Please clap (I have purchased two books so far in July)

• Visited Las Vegas for the first time and spent only $40 on gambling. Smelled like sunscreen the entire time I was there

  

• I have not gotten fired from my day job

• Filled the bird feeders semi-reliably

• Lost zero excitement for every time I see deer in our backyard

  

• Finished FIVE sweaters (two were for babies and two were for baby sheep)

• Read 29 books

• Fired my therapist

• Finally got my reimbursement from my visit to the endodontist—an appointment I had in December of 2025 that was $500 and did nothing to fix the offending tooth. After many months, phone calls, and uncomfortably direct emails, I received my reimbursement check for $193 on June 25th. Our “healthcare system” makes you work for the money you’re owed and pay for services that don’t help and I will never not be resentful about it.

• Bought a longboard and started taking in out once a week

• Collected 12 rejections

• Published 5 new pieces outside of substack

• Published 13 newsletter issues

• Have not run out of toilet paper once

A Few Failures:

• Increased my spending on groceries by 13% while not increasing my income. Clearly this is a personal failure and not a result of record inflation rates and fifty years of wage stagnation

• Sometimes there’s cat hair all over the furniture

• Have yet to find a new therapist. ISO: Someone who laughs at my jokes and doesn’t worship at the Mel Robbins alter

• Have only semi-reliably filled the bird feeder (sorry to the birds, but mostly the squirrels)

• Still haven’t fully found a way to keep the little bugs off my house plants and out of my house

• Sat on my couch instead of at my desk 85% of the time I work from home

• Cried at work twice

• Misread my cat showing me her belly as her wanting belly rubs

  

• Attended only two yoga classes, my hamstrings, upper back, and stressed out brain all notice.

• Collected 12 rejections (goal for the year is 50)

• Have not befriended a single crow

• Have been unable to single-handedly fund a local bookstore with my purchases

Looks like accomplishments are winning out, which is a great place to be heading into Q3.

What do you want to know more about? I could probably detail out a full post on how I wiggled my way into a writing group (be really thirsty about it), how I format my rejection spreadsheet, and wax poetic about my cat’s belly for a full 2000 words, but I’ll spare everyone that if there’s not a lot of interest.

For the next half of 2026, I’ll be working on racking up more submissions/rejections and continuing to read as much as I can.

I’m working on wearing my failures as accomplishments, because trying is hot girl shit. What have you failed at/tried lately?

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When I started taking writing more seriously, it became abundantly clear I needed to take my reading more seriously, too. So in 2020 I set a goal to read 12 books. I read 15, so in 2021 I set a goal to read 25 books and I read 21. By 2024 I read a total of 72 books in a single year (it’s hard to overstate how great an impact multiple book clubs, access to a library card, and severe underemployment had on my capacity to read).

This year, I’m tragically employed but I’m still making time to read. I hope to hit 50 books this year and I’m currently sitting at 28. Here are some highlights from the first six months.

Rereads

2026 has brought an unusual amount of rereads. On Writing, Stephen King’s part memoir/part craft book was the first Stephen King I’ve ever read, and I think that guy’s got real potential—really knows his way around some words. I listened to him read the audio book this time and it was delightful.

Interior Chinatown was a book club selection and rereading it affirmed that it slaps. Charles Yu is a prolific writer, but maybe best known in pop culture for having written on the first season of Westworld. Interior Chinatown is a quick read with creative formatting that also delves into challenging subject matter. I highly recommend it if you’re in a reading slump.

Quietly Hostile by Samantha Irby, Congratulations! The Best is Over! by R. Eric Thomas, and Everybody’s Favorite by Lilian Stone are all comp titles for the book I’m working on, so I re-read them to make sure I didn’t hallucinate their similarities. I love all three of them for different reasons, but I was particularly struck by Congratulations! The Best is Over! This time around. Thomas makes me laugh in such unexpected ways and speaks with such empathy and heart while still being human and a little petty (complimentary). Last time I was in Philadelphia I saw him in Reading Terminal and was completely star struck.

I’m Still Thinking About These

Like This, But Funnier by Hallie Cantor was somehow both anxiety-inducing and so much fun. The premise that a struggling TV writer accidentally pitches notes she didn’t mean to read from one of her husband’s therapy clients and her agents LOVE the idea had me cringe-chuckling throughout.

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. Beautiful and sad and lovely. It featured a Marina Ambromavic-esq performance artist, a sad, queer poet in recovery, and the darkest occupation of a soldier I’d never heard of.

Carrie. I told you this Stephen King guy was going somewhere! I’d seen the Sissy Spacek/Piper Lorrie classic a couple times, but like many adaptations, the book was better (and the Brian DePalma movie is GREAT). I particularly loved the entries from Sue Snell’s memoir and excerpts from scientific publications about telekinesis.

Actress of a Certain Age. I’d seen Jeff Hiller’s American Express commercial and binged enough 30 Rock in my time that I remembered him with a little memory jogging, but I’d never heard of Somebody Somewhere, the HBO show that earned him an Emmy. The audio book is wonderful—he’s a delight to listen to—but I loved this book so much that I purchased the physical book before I was halfway through the borrowed audio book. Sweet, earnest, hilarious, self aware, and so honest about what it’s like to be a theater kid who tries too hard and cares too much. What a delight. I laughed! I cried! I thought, Jesus, who reads this many celebrity memoirs? (Jeff does).

Not for me

Writing a book looks really hard and I have yet to do so myself, so I’m not one to judge books harshly. When I say something is not for me, I do not mean, “This sucks and shouldn’t exist.” I mean I personally was not the target audience.

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig was a MISS. I wanted so much more for this depressed lady than a bunch of judgement for being on antidepressants! The magical realism could not save it. That’s a Great Question. I’d Love to Tell You felt both thin and heavy somehow. Elyse Meyers is a delight on the internet, where I continue to follow her and her book was great for other people! The Year of Less by Cait Flanders came out in 2018 and felt a little dated, but I really shut down when she talked negatively about her body and could not relate to the amount of stuff it sounded like she owned pre-experiment, which again, makes me think it was simply not for me.

Favorite of the Year(so far):

Searches: Selfhood in the Digital Age by Vauhini Vara. I cannot begin to do this book justice in a brief blurb but I will attempt to communicate what it’s about. Vara lost her sister to leukemia when she was young and grew up to become a journalist covering tech widely. This book intermingles her Google search history, facts about the tech industry shaping and exploiting humanity, and attempts to prompt ChatGPT to write an essay about her sister’s death she’s never been able to write herself. I think it should be required reading for everyone with an internet connection. I devoured this and purchased it before I’d finished my borrowed copy.

DNF.

My reading time is too brief and my To Be Read pile too large to be reading things that don’t hit. This year only two books have been exiled to my Did Not Finish shelf.

The Woman They Could Not Silence by Kate Moore is a nonfiction book my book club was VERY excited to read. I got halfway through when I let it go. My biggest beef was the author’s use of highly illustrative language for it being nonfiction, which makes it feel false, which upsets me because this subject matter is important and I want it to be taken seriously, not dramatized for effect.

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. I will come back to this one, but I learned the hard way it’s not a good before bed read. I need a little more of my wits about me before I head back to the trenches with Yossarian.

WHAT ARE YOU READING? What’s your favorite read of the last few years? Tell me everything.

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Here’s a full list of what I’ve read this year. Want to be friends on Storygraph? Goodreads? In real life?

Carrie by Stephen King

Yes Please by Amy Poehler

Actress of a Certain Age by Jeff Hiller

Blood Test by Charles Baxter

Careless People Sarah Wynn-Williams

The House by the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune

Black Friend by Ziwe

That’s a Great Question. I’d Love to Tell You by Elise Myers

Audition by Katie Kitamura

Searches: Selfhood in the Digital Age by Vauhini Vara

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma by Claire Dederer

Adult Braces by Lindy West

Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu

Murder Bimbo by Rebecca Novack

Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh

Congratulations! The Best is Over by R. Eric Thomas

Quietly Hostile by Samantha Irby

Everybody’s Favorite: Tales From the World’s Worst Perfectionist by Lillian Stone

The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone by Audrey Burges

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar

Like the but Funnier by Hallie Cantor

Raw Dog by Jackie Loftus

Lost Lambs by Madeline Cash

On Writing by Stephen King

The Year of Less by Cait Flanders

Read This to Look Cool by Maeve Dunigan

Doll Parts by Penny Zang

Currently reading:

Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

Two clarifying points for those not in the know (probably 90% of people who read this newsletter).

What are smelt? I had no idea until I moved here. Smelt are a small, silver fish. They rarely exceed 20 centimeters and migrate in large schools in the springtime to do what most animals do in the springtime: bump uglies and make more of themselves.

There are many many kinds of smelt. Some are anadromous (living in the oceans, migrating to freshwater to mate). The smelt local to me do their ugly bumping in the streams that empty out into Lake Superior. They’re one of the few fish that are legal to fish with a hand-dipped net, and are often enjoyed by consumers whole and fried. The migration of smelt from one location to another is known as a Smelt Run, and is an ideal time to fish for them. Throughout May, people frequently host fishing parties along one of the many streams that run into the big lake and follow the party with a big smelt fry.

So what is the Magic Smelt Parade?

The Magic Smelt Parade has occurred in Duluth annually since 2012. It’s a free event that depends on the community to show up and engage with the work directly. Part protest, mostly party, they host workshops in the weeks leading up to the parade where they educate and encourage community members to craft their own costumes, make signs, and engage with their annual skit—typically a commentary on local happenings.

This year, the play featured and evil billionaire (recognizable by a giant hand-painted sign around his neck that read, “billionaire”) carrying a briefcase with the Google logo on it and ordering his thugs (cackling goons in black burglar masks and comically large sledge hammers) to install signs that read, “Mega data center coming soon!” The crowd booed these villains (you know I love a good booing) in delight. Once the signs were installed, a woman with an easel wearing a dress and a paper mâché smelt head entered to enjoy her afternoon painting. A fisherman also entered, with a giant paper mâché man head and a net to fish for smelt.

An important note here: You may think that the smelt-headed painter lady would be scared of the smelt fisherman. And you may assume that since the smelt fisherman is there to… um… catch and probably eat smelt… that he is the villain here. Your logic is sound, but don’t lose track of the real bad guy in this story, which is absolutely the billionaire. The smelt/people relationship is blurry in this parade but they need and respect each other! No one needs billionaires!

The fisherman sees the data center signs and runs to the smelt-painter lady and shows her. They freak out! No one wants data centers! Gross! They turn to the “statue” that has been there since the beginning of the crowd gathering—another smelt-headed performer who is sitting on a pedestal labeled “The Thinker” holding the iconic pose of the statue of the same name for at least twenty minutes.

The Thinker awakens! He sees the signs! He directs the fisherman and the smelt painter lady to use some of her red paint and paint giant “X”es on the data center signs. The crowd cheers! The brass band swells! Neptune (or Poseidon, depending on your Greco/Roman preferences) comes out! He has a message for us!

Neptune: “We don’t need Artificial Intelligence! We have… Art!”

(The smelt-painter holds a sign that says “ART”)

Neptune: “Fish!”

(The fisherman holds up a sign that says, “FISH” and has a rendering of smelt on it.)

Neptune: “And Intelligence”

(The Thinker holds up a sign that says INTELLIGENCE”)

Neptune leads the laughing crowd in a chant, “Art! Fish! Intelligence!” Many other costumed smelt-ish characters join in the crowd and the brass band (which has been scoring the whole skit) begins to move. The second line forms and we make our way dancing with the brass band, waving smelty flags along one of the largest freshwater lakes in the world.

Spring hits different in Northern Minnesota, where I can comfortably wear a sweater through June. It also snowed in early May this year and on May 17th, the date of the Smelt parade, the high temp was in the low forties with a wind chill of twenty-eight degrees. The wind whipped the lake into waves, which sprayed the cheering crowd as we passed. Ah… SPRING.

The parade ends at a local theater/non profit restaurant (I don’t know either, just go with it) where participants are invited to enjoy some fried smelt and continue dancing on the sidewalk.

This was our third smelt parade and I look forward to it every year. Partially because the smelt/people watching is unparalleled (this year we saw a newscaster interviewing a smelt robot). But our world can feel quite heavy, and talking about its heaviness as a community is important, but not always easy. Protest, resistance, and standing up to injustices—these are all critical and I believe in them, but with an ever-mounting array of shitty things to stand up to, giving in to burnout and hopelessness feels inevitable. But getting together with hundreds of community members you do or do not know to cheer for smelt and the fishermen while booing billionaires creates joy, levity, and community which we’ll need to continue our heavier work.

Have you been to a protest that felt like a party? Would you go to one? Tell me everything.

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I don’t love a commencement speech. I think we can agree we peaked at Wear Sunscreen, which despite being oft attributed to Kurt Vonnegut and was mixed into a hit song by Baz Luhrmann was actually written by Pulitzer Prize winner Mary Schmich in 1997 as an essay in the Chicago Tribune. I didn’t know this until a lil’ Google. Did you know this?

And for the lady, perhaps a hit of nostalgia?

The only other famous commencement speech I can think of is null because while Make Good Art had some decent content, the author Ne*l G*iman is dead to us now and forever and we don’t need that trash in our lives because plenty of other people who didn’t harm dozens of women are indeed, making good art.

BUT. My interest in commencement speeches has been recently piqued because they’re illustrating that the adults are not alright but the kids sure are! And it’s a great sign that one of my favorite past times may be coming back in style: Booing.

I think we’d like to believe we’ve outgrown booing as a culture. That booing is gauche, perverse, and unnecessary. That instead of booing, we could write a strongly worded letter or gentle-parent people who are saying idiotic things at inappropriate times into being better people, but I think booing is the correct reaction in certain circumstances.

The boo-surgance has been taking hold in commencement speeches, and they’ve been delightful to witness. Here are several notable boo situations that occurred this graduation season and they were, perhaps counter-intuitively, standing ovation worthy.

1. Eric Schmidt at the University of Arizona is probably the highest profile of the new boo-babes. Schmidt is a former who-gives-a-shit at Google and the moment AI escaped his mouth, students hurled Boos at him with vigor. He responded to the boo chorus with, “I know how you feel about it, I can hear you.” Clearly not understanding that the students issue was not that he could hear them, but actually that the students could hear him and they’d rather not.

   

2. Gloria Caulfield at University of Central Florida is some fool that was excited to talk to the kids about AI and she was so unembarrassingly shocked when she was booed and SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN EMBARRASSED. She was hired to give some inspirational words to the leaders of tomorrow and instead showed everyone how clueless she is about the concerns of tomorrow’s leaders. This one was extra fantastic because after she regains her composure, she follows up with, “Only a few years ago, AI was not a factor in our lives.” And the students break into an uproarious cheer. Yes. The grads and the rest of us would like to go back to the time when AI was not a factor in our lives, pls.

   

3. At Middle Tennessee State University, Scott Borchetta (Swiftie enemy #2, I assume, after Jake Gyllenhaal) pushed against his boo-ers by saying, “Do something about it, it’s a tool. Make it work for you.” Not seeming to realize the biggest tool in the room was the asshole giving the commencement speech.

   

4. And not a commencement speech, but just as egregious (maybe more), at Glendale Community College in Arizona, the President of the college addressed students during the commencement ceremony and told them that a huge portion of names had been skipped and would not be re-read because they were using a new AI system, to which the students gloriously and understandably booed.

I came across an article recently stating something like, “Booing at commencement speakers who mention AI is a trend.” As though this is some silly thing the kids are doing, and not an honest reaction from college grads voicing their disgust (it’s giving Orcas capsizing multi-million dollar yachts). And how could they not be disgusted? Commencement speakers are paid by the university to inspire the students (who have paid the university) about their future and instead these jerks are showing up to tell the whippersnappers about how great AI is for enshittifying the already disastrous labor market they’re about to enter. These people deserve to get booed, and I’d argue getting booed is a gift—a wake up call to reconsider why they’re so hyped up on AI.

And honestly? I hope this is the beginning of a huge resurgence of the Boo. Bring back Booing! And I’m saying this as a performer. There’s no faster feedback than a boo or a laugh. Boo people! Let them know how they’re doing!

And don’t save your boos for shitty tech people! Boo your boss who tells you to stay late at work! Boo that person who parks in the bike lane! Boo your neighbor raising their Trump flag! Boo the Princess in her dream for marrying Humperdink instead of her one true love, Wesley! More Boos. Tell them how you feel. Bring back public shaming for people who are outsourcing the work they should be doing with their own brain. For people who lack of perspective, and for people not holding up their end of societal agreements! If we stick to our strongly worded letters and polite tactics with grown ass adults, they see it as agreement. Booing is the only way.

If I weren’t such a compost fan, I’d consider advocating for bringing back hucking rotting food at shitty people, too.

Have you ever booed someone? Been booed? Tell me everything.

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I’ve been spending a week trying to suss out why this is the case—is it that writing for a live audience is that different from writing a newsletter/blog? Is it because this story is from a long time ago so I don’t remember it as well, or I see it through a very different lens? Ultimately, I think it’s a combination of many things, but I wanted to share a big one.

Context over Culture:

This is not a tactic I’d recommend for any kind of writer—live storyteller, paper storyteller, or lyrical dancer. I realized as I was rehearsing the story that a large chunk of it was context. I crave laughter as a form of approval, so I peppered many jokes throughout, and I refuse to believe the story was boring for self-preservation reasons, but the action boils down to this:

I performed as Desdemona in Othello in a touring production for high school students. Once, while I was getting strangled onstage by Othello, a student yelled “Yeah! Choke that bitch!” Then the bell rang and everyone left before the play was over. My character died and my fellow performers continued because there were six students out of 1,000 who stayed to watch the end.

This story took me twelve minutes to tell.

Don’t get me wrong—last Summer, on this very platform, I took 1,400 words to tell y’all a story that boiled down to:

I got a Brazilian wax for the first time when I was 39-years-old. It hurt so much that I asked to modify to a regular bikini wax partway through.

Much of storytelling is how we relate to a topic and what it means to us, but what stood out when contrasting the story I told at the jam to the words I’m sharing on this platform is that one focused on context and the others focus on culture.

Here’s a larger blurb from the touring Shakespeare story:

We could get a good sense of how a school was going to react to us by what we called the “Welcome wagon.” We’d pull up to the school and two of us would go in to check in at the office and find out where we needed to load in. Welcome wagon ran a spectrum: On one end of the spectrum, the AP English teacher was waiting for us outside at 7AM in 3 degree weather. She would breathlessly share with us all the prep they’ve been doing with the students for this day, showing off their interpretive artwork based on Othello-specific prompts while leading us to the stage area. Hallways lined with green-eyed monster interpretations and handkerchiefs—the token of love that Othello bestows on Desdemona. On the other end of the spectrum were days when we’d find our way to the office and a harried secretary with two pairs of glasses on her head would leap up form her paper work, annoyed, “Who the fuck are you? Here for what? No one tells me anything” before begrudgingly saying, “I guess you can load in down the hall.”

Context galore! This isn’t even a part of the specific story I was telling, but the experience of touring, which I did for five consecutive years seasonally, was such a specific, delightful, and personality-forming novelty for me, that I was compelled to share a slice of life on the road for six nerdy Shakespeare performers.

While much of the work I share on here certainly reveals my personality (so sorry), it’s also (I hope) an examination of how I’m interacting with and interrogating our culture in a larger context.

If I were to re-write the Othello story for this Substack, I might consider what it says about our culture when a teenager screams, “Choke that bitch” loudly at school. What it says about that student’s confidence in not facing repercussions for saying something so shocking and violent. What it says about 23-year-old me who was more offended that they would deign to interrupt the very high art that I adored than concerned for the well-being of that child or anyone he spent time with. What it says about our current moment that a play about domestic murder which feeds of the insecurities of powerful men may be Shakespeare’s most culturally relevant play today, at least for the masses (plenty of relevant plays for wealthy, power-hungry men who give zero shits about anyone but themselves).

The Othello story, or the “Choke that bitch” story, depending on your preference is partially so satisfying because it was one of the few moments I questioned whether or not what we were doing was having a positive effect at all. 23-year-old Sarah mostly made an assumption that this work was impactful because it made a huge impact on me. That’s a luxury I don’t get to take into consideration in my working life at present while jobs become scarcer, my tolerance for instability decreases, and inflation inflates. Performing every day and spending time driving around Idaho with my friends was ample reward.

One of the reasons I chose to tell this story at the jam was the neat ending:

Our closing music cue started, which was my cue to open my eyes and join my friends in a curtain call to what I was certain would be an empty theater, but instead was six students in the front row leaping to their feet in uproarious applause.

We took our bows and instead of standing for our Q & A, sat at the edge of the stage with our remaining audience members. The students asked questions that included of course, “How do you memorize all those lines?” and “Are you two dating?” but also, “Is this your real job?” and ”What do your parents think of you being an actor?” and “Why do you like Shakespeare?”

I don’t do a lot of theater anymore, I’m mostly a writer now, but I think about this moment a lot in terms of my audience. My audience that day was 1000 people in an auditorium but my real audience was six. I might write something that gets viewed 3000 times, but maybe my real audience is the ten people who engage with it, who share it with someone, who reach out to me directly about it. Our audience isn’t the 994 people who are ready to move on the moment a bell rings. It’s those six kids in the front row. And it’s worth it for those six kids every time.

There’s another option for why this story differs from my usual Substack-ary which I’ll refer to as a Moth infestation. The Moth is a story-telling series (not the bug), which has a very specific voice and structure once you listen to enough of them, and this ending in particular feels Moth-y (I love the Moth, I’m just observing my own writing here).

This story analysis moment was insightful because after three years (?!) of publishing what I thought was, “Whatever I want” on this platform, I realized the content found a niche of light-hearted, earnest (sometimes cringe), cultural exploration. And that feels like a big step for someone who originally named her newsletter “The Anti Niche.” (terrible name. Thanks for sticking through that with me).

Do you notice shifts in your writing depending on your audience? How does code switching show up in your writing? Tell me everything.

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But that doesn’t keep the want away.

One of the ways I cope with my deep desires to purchase things I don’t need is by making lists of all the things I want, how much they cost, and saying to myself, “You definitely do not need this and cannot afford it.” Putting things on paper (by paper I mean my notes app) helps me come to terms with how ridiculous it is to want all of these things that will not, in fact, enrich my life. But I’m trying a new tactic today: Publicly declaring my desires for the things I don’t need and explaining why they’d be a bad idea.

Things I’m certain will fix my life and personality if I purchase them immediately:

Thursday Chelsea Legend Platform Boot:

This company spends a lot on instagram marketing and it shows. I am constantly drooling over these boots and fantasizing how amazing they would look with skinny jeans I no longer own and never liked (a fact I was reminded of when I succumbed to a brief fit of nostalgia, purchased skinny jeans, tried them on and immediately returned them after removing them with a shoehorn and vaseline). And yet, the indie sleaze part of my personality wants to wear these with my skinny jeans and thrifted cub scouts uniform shirt to a show at the Neurolux where gin and tonics are $4.50 and we smoke cloves on the patio until 2am. But I don’t smoke anymore and my current job is more work boot less fashion boot when I’m not working from the comfort of my home. I’m also staunchly in the hard pants=hard life camp, which means I’d rarely wear this dream outfit. I should mention that I also own TWO pairs of Chelsea boots. One of which has a platform but is still not as cute as these.

Thursday Western Belt:

I didn’t expect to get blindsided by the perfect belt when I was longing for a nostalgic boot, but this is how they get you. I hadn’t considered that one could spend $80 on a belt, but I suppose that was a lack of imagination on my part. This belt would surely be better than any belt I’ve ever owned and would bring me joy in pants-wearing I never knew was possible.

Onsen Waffle Towels:

Wirecutter is single handedly responsible for most of my purchases, responsible or otherwise. When I was looking to acquire bath towels from a retailer that had slightly more pizazz than CostCo, I asked for Wirecutter’s opinion. Now, Onsen towels are all over my feed and inbox. I had never heard of a “bath sheet” until I lived with someone who is over 6 feet tall and benefits from bonus towel, but they are incredibly luxurious. Onsen makes them in a waffle fabric and honestly the only thing saving my wallet from them is that they’re out of stock in the color I want.

Nobel Utility Dress:

A dress? But utilitarian?! Now, if you’re like my Mom (hi Mom!) you know that most dresses can be made utilitarian and maybe you’ve been wearing utilitarian dresses for decades. But I’m a sucker for MARKETING, baby. Nobel is a US manufactured clothing company, which I’m always on the hunt for and are also always expensive, because making things costs money, and we should pay the people who make them a living wage, so they should be expensive. But like, maybe not for me specifically? The marketing for these also features diversity in size, age, color, and tattoos, which I always want to reward with my money because there are more people than willowy 20-something white girls who need to put clothing on their bodies. Do I already own a dress with pockets that’s appropriate for summer? Yes! Three of them!

A Whole Ass Suit From Wild Fang:

Real ones will know Wild Fang is a company that features a perfect blend of androgynous style appropriate for a wide range of sizes. I know them most for their coveralls and Wild Feminist tees, but their suiting section is a rabbit hole I willingly fall into regularly (it helps that they do collabs with baddies like Debbie Harry and Juliette Lewis). I do not have a job that requires professional office wear. I have a job that requires me to get muddy, damp, sweaty, and sooty on a daily basis, so I can’t justify this for work. More importantly, their sizing charts are a clear sign that tailoring would be necessary for their pants with waist-to-hip ratios that make my glutes bounce with laughter. I can be counted on to return something if it doesn’t fit, but saying g’bye to $300ish dollars for a suit just to be fairly certain I’ll return it is logically stupid but realistically something I’m likely to do if I’ve had the right kind of day (bad).

Roller Skates:

God, I am certain I would be the coolest, most unstoppable human alive if I just got the Moxi Lollys that all my cool skating friends recommended to me two summers ago, when I first seriously considered taking up skating. Millennials have rebranded a lot of milestones, but the midlife crisis is one of the cooler things we’ve been working on. Nothing says crisis like being in your late thirties, with mediocre health insurance, dropping $400, and strapping 8 wheels to your feet for the first time since you were nine. What could possibly go wrong?

A Longboard:

A subtle, but important distinction from roller skates! I’m smart enough to know that a skateboard would be a bad choice, as someone who once stood on a skateboard and immediately fell off. But I am also dumb enough to think I could easily master a longboard at the youthful age of 39-and-9 months. The longboard is an expense, but the helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, and wrist guards would cost almost as much plus any remaining sense of pride. AND I would have to walk into the coolest store in town, tell the sk8Rboyz there that I, their mother, am looking to purchase a long board for the first time, and would one of the nice youths know of some kind of structured classroom environment where I could learn how to roll out on this plank?

My Consolation Prize

Over-restriction doesn’t do anyone any good. And I’m making NO promises that I’m not going to eventually cave and purchase one or all of the above items because I am CHAOTIC in a neurotically organized kind of way. My “impulse buys” are usually something I’ve been eyeing for months that I’m just one crummy day away from splurging on. That said, I was properly influenced the old fashioned way, by a friend’s (hi Nicole!) photo on BeReal who was wearing these cute little clog-ish things. When I asked, they replied that they’re Kyrgies, which are a proper house shoe. Sustainably made out of one of my favorite material—wool—I justified these because I often work from home and live in a place where the last freeze date is May 20th, making wool slippers useful for at least nine months out of the year.

What are you not buying?! Capitalism is always trying to convince us we’ll be happier with STUFF, but sometimes I’m just as happy talking about stuff and how dumb Capitalism is. Have you longed to purchase any of the above things? Do you have them and are you going to convince me to buy them? What’s on your, “I must buy this thing but I know I don’t actually need it” list?

Tell me everything.

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Previously, I‘ve made goals on January 1-ish, then remembered I made them sometime in July. Then remember again around September. I’ve been great at making goals, but this year I’m putting a little more intention behind checking in on them.

The first quarter of 2026 has passed and it’s time to judge my progress harshly, talk shit about how I could have done better, and give myself a little treat for existing.

The List:

In the past, I’ve let my annual goals roam from “get a new tattoo” to “quit my job” to “eat more fiber.” This year I set mostly writing-specific goals because I’m completely perfect in every other aspect of my life and do not need to change or grow in any other way.

Progress Report:

Share more opinions: I’m embarrassed by how challenging this has been for me, someone who hopes everyone is delighted and charmed by my exitence even/especially if I hate them. I’m someone who loves the quiet affirmation of another human liking my instagram story and while I’ve been posting what I read there for a couple years now, I didn’t post any of my THOUGHTS about what I was reading until this year. I was surprised to find that other people have opinions about books! And they are not always the same as mine1!

Collect 50 rejections: Having been an awkward teenager, a clown, and a person who tries too hard, I have extensive rejection experience, but this one has been rough on me. Clowning gives you public rejection with a wide audience. Writing gives you quiet rejection in your own home. I’ve picked up 8 rejections in 2026, which puts me about 4 behind schedule. That said, I have 13 total submissions this year, and with 8 rejections, that’s a 62% acceptance rate which is… not terrible. I had two pieces that weren’t picked up at all because the world was not ready for my satirical review of Groundhog’s Day imagined as a Sleep No More-style immersive theater production.

Submit 4 timely pieces: I wish I had the ability to write quickly and well, which is why I’m pushing myself with this goal. Right on track, I’ve submitted one timely piece so far.

Submit 4 seasonal pieces: I’ve submitted 2 (we see you, Groundhog’s Day). Alexa, play Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on A Prayer

Create and attend another writing retreat: I’ve started research on this, so I’m already ahead of previous years’ planning.

Devote more time to writing—2 hours daily: I missed this in January with an average of 1.97 hours daily (yes, my hour tracking is unhinged), but nailed my goal in both February and March and it feels amazing. When I started writing regularly, it took me a long time to progress. It was easy for me to brain dump shit onto a page, but I was baby-deering my way through revising and editing, which were as mysterious as they were difficult. Now, I spend the bulk of my time time making my word vomit less vomity and lucky for me, it takes a long time to do that! So filling a couple hours is less challenging. I’m sure I will always long for more time, but 8 hours of most of my days goes to a day job where I compose beautiful emails and slack messages for the masses.

All this has reminded me of a lovely substack written by Hurley Winkler last summer devotion vs. discipline and how they can guide each other. I’m not about to stop tracking ANYTHING about my writing, because I love a spreadsheet and writing is the least toxic thing I’ve found I can track in my life (so sorry to exercise and food, which I will not be placing numbers next to ever again).

Cultivate a larger social media presence: I hate this one, but I’m doing it anyway. Part of writing a book proposal is bragging about how capable you’ll be of promoting your book, and one way you can do that is by showing off the numbers. I am a very impressive person in a lot of ways: I can find something to worry about in most situations, I have a great butt, I once ate two full cheeseburgers in one sitting (potentially related to the great butt?). But the numbers of people following me on any social media platform could not be described as impressive. I took a sixty day course on building my platform at the beginning of the year and was in Leigh Stein’s inaugural Hype House in 2025, which helped me think about social media in a way that I find less nauseating. Have I noticed skyrocketing numbers? No! But I’ve noticed I’m trying harder, which is both important and high key cringe.

Read 50 Books: I’m 16 books in, which puts me 4 books ahead of schedule. Reading is an exceptional escape from cleaning, the state of the world, and my thoughts!

Finish my book proposal and show it to another human: I have a date on the calendar to get some feedback from a certified professional! Is the proposal “finished?” Your guess is as good as mine. But progress is progress.

Build a larger writing community/group: I’m thrilled to have a texting accountabillabuddy for newsletter purposes (shout out to Ellen! Read her newsletter on dance and culture and Philadelphia!) and I’m delighted by my wide array of internet/text-able writing friends and love cultivating those relationships. There are several larger communities and individuals that I know I can count on for general interaction, but I’m always on the lookout for a consistent group of writers that would be good fit for feedback and semi-regular meetings. Progress on this is hard to measure.

Take 2 writing classes: Before Q1 was over I’d already taken two classes. Writing classes may be a vice for me, and I’ll probably take several more this year. See: craving community.

Non-writing goals:

Practice more yoga: I can count on one hand how many yoga practices I’ve participated in since the new year, and I’m not proud of it. I’m less worried about losing my mobility and more concerned about losing my ability to take deep breaths and cultivate presence, so I’ll be focusing on this more in Q2.

Lift heavy things regularly: In March I joined a gym and have managed a fairly regular schedule since joining. The battle against osteoporosis is on.

Attend a fiber/knitting festival: I have thought about this!

The Diagnosis:

Overall, things are happening. I’m falling behind on my rejection collection, but there’s plenty of time to make that up. I find that pieces and ideas for them come in spurts (January was a big one) so here’s hoping I’m flooded with ideas again at some point in Q2.

How is your 2026 going? Feel free to use this opportunity to scream, throw something, cry, or all three!

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I was lucky to not sit on a lot of doctor’s tables in my youth, but I remember the few I did. At fifteen, I sat at the edge of a paper-covered table, clothes still on, curling my shoulders in because I had already learned to make myself small. I was certain I was sick not because I was feeling unwell, or had a rash, but because I was doing the grossest thing anyone could ever imagine: Sweating.

It’s unclear to me now whether I was actually sweating a huge amount or if it was just a lot more than I was used to because puberty is a real thing that happens and while I didn’t get actual boobs (generous A cups, thank you) until I was 20, I was bestowed the gifts of smelly sweat and acne around the normal 12-14 range.

As a teen, I used whatever was the strongest antiperspirant on the market at the time (I’m sure it was Degree for Men in Be Less of a Pussy scent) because sweating was something only grossy gross people do, not every human on earth who has functioning sweat glands. And I was convinced if I could just stop sweating I would have friends.

I was prescribed something called Drysol, which was a 20% aluminum chloride that you applied before bed and washed off in the morning. It was ineffective in making me not sweat, which I was able to continue to blame for my not having friends instead of the real reason I didn’t have friends: I was painfully shy, had just moved across the country, and was maybe a little bit of an asshole. Oops.

I still sweat a LOT. I sweat from my armpits, but even more I sweat from my face, my scalp, my back, my barely-there cleavage, my ever-growing under boob, the backs of my knees, and my butt crack. My palms don’t sweat as much as you might think, but if I’m wearing socks, chances are my feet are a moist toe-scape that are annoyingly hot (which is why they’re sweating) and cold (from being sweaty). Shockingly, despite being a sweaty sweat monster, I have been able to form many meaningful friendships and romantic relationships and no one has once mentioned how disgusting my sweat is, despite me pointing out my over-sweat loudly, frequently, and explaining how disgusting I am for sweating.

Now nearly 40, I know that sweating is nothing to be embarrassed about. LOL JK I’M STILL EMBARRASSED EVERY DAY I SWEAT WHICH IS EVERY DAY I’M ALIVE. My first reaction when I feel sweat dampen into my shirt through my new, and very hip, aluminum chloride-free deodorant is still the physical embodiment of shame. My shoulders tilt forward, my neck shortens, and I look at the ground hoping no one will look at, acknowledge, or smell me ever again as long as I live.

It’s another shame stack for me, of which I have many because your girl is very talented at balancing many shame stacks. This shame stack (shame sandwich?) looks like this:

1. I’m ashamed that I sweat, which is natural and an evolutionary necessity that my body does to keep me comfortable, alive, and dewy.

2. I’m ashamed that I feel shame for this miraculous and smart thing my body does because of the unreasonable body standards that exist in our culture. I am making the world worse by being ashamed of my sweat and I should be more ashamed that I’m not actively proud to sweat. I am ashamed that I have not started a nonprofit that educates people on the benefits of sweating and normalizes sweating for future generations.

3. It is my fault I feel shame.

It’s remarkable to me, this phenomenon. My body, whom I’m told is rudely keeping score in a game I didn’t agree to play, knows immediately to slouch away when I feel my sweat begin to show. It’s so much mental and physical work to actively fight against this impulse. To correct my posture through a damp tee shirt. To make eye contact with another human while sporting a sweat mustache. To pretend I’m comfortable with actively wet toes while wondering if I might get trench foot.

Most perplexing as I look back on these things I was/am ashamed of is that as a middle class kid how easy it was to find medical professionals who would prescribe fixes to things like this without explaining how normal they were. I was prescribed Drysol by an actual licensed adult doctor and while I’m a heavy sweater, I’m not making any medical oddities text books (which yes, I am ashamed of). The next year, I begged my mom to take me to a dermatologist to be put on Accutane, and while I certainly had some remarkable zits as a teen (not to brag, but I still do because everyone lied to us about acne being something that would stop when you hit adulthood. Why did they all lie about that?), my lil’ face volcanoes were never that bad. Kind of painful, embarrassing, and annoying, but I did not have the level of cystic, face and neck-covering acne that begged for Accutane, but they prescribed it anyway.

Cynically, this is probably a reflection of our medical system. You can get a drug for anything you don’t like about your body if you have the right doctor, insurance, and amount of capital. Optimistically, I wonder if these prescriptions were an act of pity. Anyone who looked at teen Sarah could probably see she had remarkably low self esteem. But was there a girl who grew up in the late nineties/early aughts that didn’t? Teen me believed that I would have friends and be liked if I had flawless skin, and while I wasn’t completely friendless, I was new in town, which complicated things. We moved to a new town when I was fourteen and I changed schools after the first year we lived there. I had no idea who I was and was as shy as they come, which I covered by building the kind of biting sarcasm barricade that many teenage girls learn to weaponize. I was funny in a punching-down kind of way, but I was not fun to be around. Not for other people and not for me.

I work for a sauna company now, so the sweat is a little more accepted on a professional level. I’m still generally embarrassed by having a functioning body, though I know that’s absurd on paper. The lessons I learned from magazines and the internet circa 1995 - 2005 are still in my marrow. But I’m louder about my embarrassment now. Teen Sarah tried to prevent my body from working properly to avoid shame, while current Sarah is just telling everyone about what she’s ashamed of whether the want to hear it or now (you’re welcome/I’m sorry).

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Other Updates:

• Two new places to read my work in March! My latest in the Belladonna for being a real bitch: Daily Itinerary of a Total Bitch. And in SlackJaw Communicating about Communication.

• Happy end of Q1 to all who celebrate! I’m doing quarterly check-ins this year and will share how I’m doing on my writing goals (50 rejections! read 50 books! 2 hour-daily writing goal!) next issue!

Because of the title of this piece, I know I’ve ruined the surprise, but perhaps you could imagine yourself in my shoes:

This email-er is a writer and illustrator that you know tangentially. Maybe you’d taken a class with her either as a fellow student or she was a teacher. You can’t quite remember because you take a lot of classes. You’re class-obsessed—you crave structure, feedback, and friendship. But you know this person just about enough to have their email. No better. You also admire this writer/illustrator. She’s been published in places that you hope to be published someday. She’s written several books. She has a social media presence that is pleasant, but not aggressively curated to make you feel like everything in your life sucks in comparison. She seems eminently approachable, like if you were to shoot her an email for some reason, she’d be kind, affable, and maybe even responsive!

The email she sent is an e-vite to a brunch on Sunday with her family and friends. It’s not from an e-vite service you’re familiar with, but the name seems just dumb enough to be plausible. The bleary-eyed curiosity that motivates your morning scroll moves your finger to tap the link. Once tapped, you’re prompted to enter your email again and maybe create an account? It’s a lazy Sunday morning! You’re not thinking thoughts! Admirable Writer is hosting some fun thing this weekend from which you likely live a thousand miles, but you love to be informed! It’s so cool that she thought of you, even if she just invited everyone on some list. Just check out what it is. You won’t RSVP, you just want to be in the loop with the other cool writers she knows.

The link is busted. You scroll around to see if you can find any other information to no avail. Your weakened attention span is stolen to another app and you forget about it.

The End.

…is what I wish this was!

A few days later I checked my email and was greeted with some bounce back notices. Someone I’d not spoken to in years was no longer at that email address. An auto reply from a submission website. And then a text from a friend asking me if I’d been hacked.

To clarify: I was not hacked. We’re going to get picky with words because this is Substack and what is it for if not being kind of a dick about words. Phishing is a social engineering tactic that coerces you into giving away information willingly because you think someone you admire wants to hang out with you. Hacking is a forceable breach of a system made by people who are all so androgynously hot that they’re responsible for 25% of a generations’ bisexuality.

Maybe you’ve seen this particular scam going around. Punchbowl, which is an actual e-vite service (a name just stupid enough to be plausible was, indeed, plausible!), is being mimicked to trick people into handing over their gmail information. This was perfectly believable to groggy-eyed Sarah when it’s from Admirable Writer. But when I saw this email go out to every email address I’ve ever emailed I was mortified. People were going to think I want to host a brunch? This was going to damage the brand.

I spent my morning changing passwords and freezing my credit. I texted my parents immediately and told them not to open my email. I fielded texts, emails, and instagram messages full of people who said they’d love to come to my brunch but can’t open my invite. I bathed in my shame stew.

It’s officially time for me to hand over my Millennial card. The generation known for their tech savvy. The generation who rolls their eyes at each boomer who hurriedly gives their bank account number to a stranger who called them? On the phone? And they answered?! Willingly?!? I hereby rescind my membership to the beloved Millennial generation, despite my unshakable love of avocado toast, my shameless references to “Al Gore’s Internet,” and greatest efforts to be a manager who coaches my staff into working as little as possible.

Getting tricked by strangers on the Internet, (MY Internet! The one I coded my first GeoCities website on. The one I LiveJournaled to! The one I illicitly downloaded Donnie Darko from in my parents’ basement!) is especially shameful because it shows you who you are and how it tricked you. I was tricked because my fragile, approval-seeking ego was so excited that Admirable Writer might want to hang out? With me?! Omg so cool! And to find out it was some robot trying to steal my information from a Windows desktop in an undisclosed location felt like the hot Emo boy asking me to prom on a dare. So maybe I haven’t matured at all in 25 years?

Because I actually have (barely) matured in the last 25 years, I did the responsible thing and replied to every message with apologies and pleas to send me to a home because I’m too old to handle my technology. I begged my friends to pass along whatever literature they give their boomer parents to protect them from the wiles of the world wide websters (that’s what the “web” is short for, yes?). Because I contain multitudes, I also got mad at people when they offered me advice like I should change my email password, use dual factor authentication, and never trust an invite from a person you don’t know personally. I am not an easy mark! I know what I’m doing! Okay?! I know The Internet! I just didn’t for a tiny second because BRUNCH!

After apologizing to my cat for endangering her assets, I made a post to instagram letting folks know if they got an email from me to delete it. Citing that I would never host a brunch—not that I don’t love a benedict—but it’s not witchy enough for me to put effort into. I guess the e-vite service couldn’t muster a solstice party.

Then I had to put on my big girl pants and post to the place I have not posted in years. My Facebook account has been shoved into the depths of my Chrome browser reserved only for internet stalking prospective employers, accessing facebook marketplace, and horrifyingly, figuring out how people I loved died (OMG SARAH! BLEAK! That’s not how you do a third thing!). I posted a picture for visibility and then made my PSA. Hit and run. Hoping I never had to go back again.

What I loved about this incredibly embarrassing, shameful, and humiliating moment of weakness (what’s not to love?) was the friends who told me they knew there was no way the invite was real. One friend told me, “The second I saw brunch I said, ‘She would never.’” My mother told me, “You don’t really seem like the brunch hosting type, hun.” and, “I knew it wasn’t real because why would you invite me somewhere with family AND friends?” Knowing I would not subject either group to the other.

So here’s to being susceptible to scams that appease my fragile, human ego. If you send me an e-vite in the next ten years, please know I will delete it immediately and walk into the sea unless you call me with a two factor identification that ensures me it’s really you and that you really want to invite somewhere. Like prom.

Like many Millennials, I pursued education in my first career in a mostly traditional and encouraged way. If you get enough education, you can be successful in anything! I started with a BA in theater. I worked professionally in regional theaters, self producing, and experimented with everything from barroom Shakespeare to burlesque to performance art. I then got a terminal degree in my field. Then I was like: Great! Done! Next career I guess!

I pivoted to writing seven years ago, taking comfort in knowing I had a road map to follow.

Unfortunately, getting two more degrees was daunting financially and because I’ve seen Never Been Kissed which is what I imagined going back to school would look like at thirty-two and Drew Barrymore and my similarities end at we wish we’d treated our eyebrows better in the nineties.

Lucky for this education-obsessed Millennial, there was no shortage of classes accessible to me. The now-defunct Catapult (I will never forgive them for this) offered an wide array of highly specific online and in-person courses taught by fantastic humans a short bus ride from Philly that began connecting me with a writing community and allowed me to work a 9-5 as I was learning. Second City, 92-YR, Writing Workshops, and so many more provided a place where I could do my comfort activity of learning while receiving professional feedback without having to sign up for student health insurance (this was actually a downside—student health insurance is still the best I’ve ever had).

Under the reasoning, “I like books!” I took a book proposal class around 2021 (she’ll teach it again soon!) and learned what’s expected of a non-fiction proposal. I had no idea if/how/why I would ever write a book at the time. I took the course again in early 2024, with a slightly more developed idea and began outlining the proposal in December of 2024 on a micro writing retreat.

Learning takes time, and is a lifelong pursuit, but I realized I’m operating under fallacy that I think I should be done learning in order to complete my book proposal. I use the moniker of student as an excuse to not finish the proposal because it protects me from the reality that I will be rejected many many times once I start the submission process.

The hardest part of learning is looking at examples of things done very well by professionals with established careers so you can learn to do things well. When I look at things that are done well and compare it to the thing I’m working on, the disparities I see get my worst critic (me) awfully chatty.

“Compare and despair” is a phrase a director who I’m certain did not like me used to say all the time. I hear it in my head often as I look at book proposal examples and note the author’s multiple viral McSweeney’s pieces or their professions as editors/assistant editors of beloved humor columns. I have zero viral pieces, a profession in hospitality, and a cat I’m obsessed with. But I don’t have control over how many people want to follow me on various social medias, who decides to publish my work, or what people will think of my awkward personality. I do have control over slowly growing my body of work, having a regular writing practice, and finishing my proposal.

I get stuck on portions of my proposal that require me to brag about myself because I’ve dug up everything I can to make myself sound as good as possible, but it’s still not as impressive as having a piece in The New Yorker, a five-figure following on Substack, or a longstanding professional career with established connections.

Then I remember that writing a book proposal does not mean I have to focus on all the things I do not have to offer.

It’s easy to forget, staring at a very short list of O.K. things I’ve accomplished, that the point of this proposal is not to acquire accolades, but to write a book.

On the days I focus on proposal work, I dedicate time to the proposal itself, but I continually remind myself that the writing I include in the samples will be doing just as much, of not more work. The proposal is the door I have to convince someone to open. The samples are (I think/hope) what will convince them.

This is where the learning is a detriment to me. I think, in my good student heart of hearts, that if I just learn how to do a book proposal real good, my real good proposal will get picked up because people will see what an A plus student I am. But truly, I need to write the thing well. I need to show the mythical beings that will eventually read this proposal that this book will be successful because it’s relatable, funny, and embarrassing.

I’m not anti-education even a little, and I have the student debt to prove it. But I can take a class on how to write a book proposal all I want, and my inner critics will tell me it’s not ready to submit because I’m still learning, so it’s not real. But it’s all real, my dudes. I can’t just not take something out on submission (is that what you say with a book proposal? I’m still learning) because “I’m still learning.” I can’t keep back-pedaling and say, “Oh no! This proposal I’ve been working on for two years? That was just an exercise for the REAL proposal I’ll do when I’m done learning.”

So I did the only thing I could think to do and set myself a deadline. I want to be “done” with my book proposal and ready to send it to interested parties (I will have faith that those parties exist!) by the end of June. I have that long to chew my cuticles about my platform numbers and gnaw on my cheeks regarding my accolades. But more importantly, I have that long to sharpen my overview into an exciting pitch, to get feedback on my samples, and to identify some agents to query (I think that’s next step? I’m still learning). I’ll keep showing up and working on it, full well knowing that I may never get to write this book, and if I do, it may be a huge flop. But that’s kind of the point. I’m still learning.

What are you still learning about?

I have two: Tom Holland’s Lip Sync Battle and Monica Lewinsky.

Please manage your expectations, as we’re not talking about Tom Holland today (but stick around for a little treat at the end).

I was twelve when Bill Clinton’s impeachment trial began, and I unintentionally learned a lot about what it means to be a young woman next to a man in power during that scandal. And as I stand on the precipice of my coming-of-rage (this is what we’re calling perimenopause, yes?), I think about Monica Lewinsky or a related tangent multiple times a day. I think about how we responded to the scandal as a culture, how we talked about, treated, and centered the 22-year-old woman, how sexual harassment charges that initiated the scandal fell away the cultural context, and how it set a precedent for impeachment which continues to mean very little in a practical sense.

I grew up in a Clinton household. My parents loved Clinton and voted for him enthusiastically. As a child, I didn’t have a firm grasp on politics, but my sister and Lisa Simpson played the saxophone, so I knew that Bill Clinton must also be very cool.

If you haven’t looked up Lewinsky in a while, I did it for you. From my memory, she pretty much disappeared after the scandal, but after a little digging, I remembered that she did a huge interview with Barbara Walters that broke network television viewing records and she came out with a “handbag1” line pretty close to immediately post-scandal. Lewinsky is now an activist and advocate who speaks out against bullying, which is to say, the thing that briefly ruined her life is now a thing she’s actively making her life’s work.

This is not a Lewinsky fan account or some kind of redemption post. I am not a celebrity culture girl and I’m confident that Lewinsky isn’t perfect (though of course in contrast to her male counterpart in the scandal, her admonishment felt wildly disproportionate). This is about what I learned as a 12-year-old from watching a women who was only ten years my senior be centered in the news and culture.

At twelve, I wasn’t invested in Barbara Walters or handbags or even watching the court trials. I was too busy absorbing pop culture and I watched how the adults around me reacted to that culture. I learned how funny it was to make fun of this woman for being ugly/fat/slutty/unfashionable from everyone who laughed at Jay Leno. I learned jokes about cigars at a 22-year-old’s expense were met with smug grins. I noted every high five after a snide remark about dry cleaning blue dresses.

I learned that there’s plenty of room for more than one woman to be a punchline when people laughed about Hillary being a frigid bitch and that no one could blame Bill for his indiscretion. I learned it again when people insisted Linda Tripp was counseling Lewinsky because Tripp was jealous as she herself was too ugly and old to be desired.

I don’t recall anyone saying it was Monica Lewinsky’s fault that the president was getting impeached. I’m pretty sure no one told me Lewinsky was a bad person. No one ever said to me, “Monica Lewinsky is getting exactly what she deserves.” because no one had to. She was relentlessly and publicly punished for how she dressed, how she spoke, and what she looked like. We used her to prop up the narrative that women degrade the power of men. Which is hilarious, because I’m not sure how up-to-date you are on your history, but Bill Clinton—an adult with a fully developed brain at the time—continued to be the president. After he lied and after he was impeached. And if anything was done about the very real allegations of sexual harassment, I did not absorb it because I was too busy learning how funny it was to make fun of women in proximity to powerful men.

I am keenly aware that given the current state of our presidency, Bill Clinton’s follies seem downright adorable, and we might give anything to have them again. But I also frequently wonder if this scandal served as training wheels for the cultural acceptance of what many of us find unacceptable in our current climate.

One source I came across estimated that Jay Leno made 454 jokes about Monica Lewinsky. FOURHUNDREDANDFIFTYFOUR (who counted these?). How bad of a writer do you have to be to make four point five hundred mid jokes about the same thing? In comedy, when you make a joke about someone with less social status and power, it’s called “punching down” (it’s also called harmful). Jay was telling on himself for being boring, lazy, and obsessed with Monica Lewinsky, but we still laughed.

This to me reads like someone told new kid to go find the left handed keg wrench (PSA: left handed keg wrenches do not exist) and then TELEVISING IT NATIONALLY FOR A YEAR. “Look at this idiot who has no idea how the world works because she doesn’t have experience with how the world works! Instead of showing an ounce of empathy and recognition for a time that I didn’t know how the world worked, let’s shame her and laugh at her expense forever!”

This is why many women are fixated on ensuring everyone likes them. We have seen what happens to women who are not liked.

I think about Lewinsky all the time because I learned how to see myself by watching her and how my value was culturally measured. I learned that women’s worth was determined by their relationship to powerful men. I knew nothing about who she actually was other than an intern at the White House, who had a blue dress, wore a beret, and was called her fat, which I had already been learning for years was the worst thing you could call a woman. She was reduced to a caricature for us to laugh at.

I’m sure there was plenty of reporting about who Monica Lewinsky was beyond the scandal, but if I was exposed to it, I did not hear it. I heard she was a sluttly slut mcslutterton in a slut dress who ruined the country’s favorite dude with her succubus slutbombs and how dare she.

So how many times a day am I thinking about Monica Lewinsky adjacent content? At least two. But you know what else I’m thinking about on a near-daily basis? Maybe one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. And you made it through my anger, confusion, and sadness of girlhood so we all deserve a little treat. Don’t skimp on this one, babes. Get your vitamin Holland. This is 2.5 minutes competency porn.

Other Updates:

• Paid subscribers are still here! Y’all are gems and watch your physical mailboxes for your incoming benefits (If your address has changed since last year, please reply to this email to let me know!). If you care to upgrade to paid subscription, I will also send you a little delightful thing in the mail!

  Subscribe/Upgrade to paid here!

• I’ve got two pieces published and out in the world in 2026. You can find them both at The Belladonna Comedy.

I moved to Minnesota in July of 2023 from Philadelphia, a city that I adore and would have lived in forever if I wanted to live in a big city. My partner is from here, but I had no other connections and had visited the state minimally. We were drawn here because we love the outdoors, we knew access to women’s healthcare weren’t threatened by the state, and Winter. I love Winter.

It’s a huge privilege to get to choose where you live and big shift to go from Philly, known for it’s grit and the slogan, “No one likes us, we don’t care” to Minnesota’s nice-ness. In the last two-and-half-years I’ve been affirmed over and over by the decision. I live next to the GLOAT (greatest lake of all time), have been outside in the snow more in the last year than in the last decade, and there are more local bookstores in Minnesota than anywhere I’ve ever lived.

But the people have been the most surprising affirmation. When I was growing up the lamest thing you could be was nice. Irony and sarcasm were a currency to themselves and being cool meant that nothing in the world could be cool to you. Everything was boring, played out, and eye roll worthy.

There has been a greater cultural shift since then, and even when I lived in Philly, I, and it seemed others, were testing the waters on what it was like to get really excited about something. In public. And show it. But I would believe you if you told me that Minnesotans were never affected by the great nineties/early aughts apathy and over-cool. I have only my singular experience, and I live in a specific geographic region in Minnesota that is very urban while still having what we lovingly refer to as “town deer.” But the truism of “Minnesota nice” has manifested in ways beyond small talk and smiles.

Conversation literacy is certainly a part of it. I often play the game, “Are they midwestern or are they flirting with me?” because for decades, anytime someone I just met asked me such thoughtful questions, it was because they read a Maxim article titled, “Six Questions to Get Her to Give it Up” and rarely listened to my replies. Minnesotans are not flirting with me. They’re just interested and know how to have a conversation. I’m often asked kind, curious questions about my life with genuine curiosity and a surprising lack of invasiveness1.

Because of the Minnesota nice trope, I assumed Minnesotans were people-pleasers and rule followers. But they are teaching me that niceness is different from complicity. The nature of the “niceness” is key here. This nice has integrity. It is invested in people, not in diffusing discomfort. They are nice with voracity and purpose. They are nice in that they stand up for each other in the face of injustice. Which is why an estimated 50,000 (some sources said 100,000) Minnesotans showed up in Minneapolis on Friday, January 23rd in -9 degrees (and again on the 31st, when it was a whole +9) to protest the presence of nefarious federal agents that are murdering and disappearing their community members. They did it because that’s what nice neighbors do. It’s why hundreds of people in my small Minnesota city stood quietly in a city hall sit-in, and why an estimated seven hundred businesses, museums, and schools state-wide shut down on that day for an economic pause to support the cause.

Like every state in the U.S., Minnesota is full of descendants of immigrants, recent and otherwise. Best known/most glamorous are probably the Scandinavians, but there are also Finnish, Slavic, and outnumbering them all, German. Minnesota, in comparison to the three other states I’ve lived in, also actively addresses, acknowledges, and includes its indigenous populations. Many non-natives know how to say please and thank you in their regional indigenous language and many lakes continue to be known by their Ojibwe or Dakota names. Generally, I see newer immigrants to the state welcomed with enthusiasm, organizational support, and joy. Hmong, Somali, and beyond are met with excitement for the opportunity to share culture from sauna to holidays to, against the stereotype, new and sometimes spicy foods.

I don’t live in Minneapolis. I’m about 150 miles north, but Minnesotans statewide have been standing up for their own, new immigrants and old, since the beginning of the year. We’ve joined rapid response programs, carry whistles, and are sharing resources with teams in our workplaces to help protect our neighbors and communities that make us so nice.

“Where are you from?” Continues to be a loaded question for me. I was born in New Jersey, grew up in Central PA, Northern California, and Idaho, before spending a decade in Philadelphia and I now live in Minnesota. For many East-coasters, hearing I was from Idaho meant I was next door to or somehow inside the state of Iowa. I was frequently insulted by being lumped in with midwesterners because I’d honed an exterior presentation of being a smart-ass, apathetic, ironic cynic. But as I’ve grown accustomed to letting my softer side out, I’ve also let my pride for living in a state I so admire rise. The midwest has welcomed me in a way only the sincerest of hotdishes and honest wood-fired saunas could, and I’m doing my best to learn what it means to be nice.

Other Updates:

• If you’re like me and get easily overwhelmed by the amount of places available to donate to in Time Like These, here’s a go fund me for Columbia Heights Families who are struggling and one for the Powderhorn neighborhood families who are struggling. These funds go to families who can’t pay their rent or buy groceries because they’ve been to scared to leave their houses to go to work.

• I read five book in January because the real world blows right now. Carrie, my first Stephen King novel, was tied as my favorite of the year so far with Actress of A Certain Age by Jeff Hiller2, who I knew nothing about before reading his memoir in very funny essays. I highly recommend both of these books which are not at all similar.

• Between the state of the world (see above), getting sick, heaps of rejection, and personal life rough-stuff, January was a terrible month. I hope a brighter year is coming for us all. I think we could all use a little more Friday energy, which is the name of my cat, below:

I was lucky enough to I grow up with a lot of access to health care, but as an old child/young adult there was a nearly ten year stint during which I didn’t visit a dentist at all due to lack of insurance and medical anxiety.

I eventually found a dentist who offered a discount for folks without insurance, and I started going regularly. Did it help that he played Joy Division while he worked, didn’t shame me for not having perfect teeth, and was kinda hot? These are the great mysteries of the universe.

All good things come to an end, and when I moved for graduate school, I didn’t see a dentist again for three years. When I finally did, despite my diligence in flossing and brushing, my teeth needed some attention. A new dentist who played boring music told me I needed four crowns and several fillings. I panicked when I found out how much crowns cost (more than I made in a month) and how bad my nonprofit insurance was. Thankfully, I was living in a big city and able to get a second opinion where I was told he wouldn’t do a crown at all, which saved me six thousand dollars I did not have.

Both dentists and dermatologists have a confusing line between healthcare and cosmetics. I love that people can spend a million dollars on their teeth and look like a cartoon. That’s Capitalism, baby! But I need my teeth to last only as long as I do. I only want to spend money on them if it’s medically necessary. Similarly, when I go to the dermatologist, please just check out my moles, compliment my ability to hide from the sun, and keep your needles to yourselves. Botox is not a hobby I can afford.

In Philly, I would get x-rayed, and the hygienist or Dr. would often say, “Wow, you’ve had a lot of work done.” and I would reply, “Thank you!” because culturally, ‘work’ is an ethical good.

When we moved to northern Minnesota, I opened my mouth and the hygienist said, “Wow, you’ve got great teeth.” Thank you! I’ve had a lot of work done!

I suspect this is a health equity issue. Both dentists in Boise and Philly were in areas of higher socioeconomic status. Many people in those places had access to decent health care for generations, so they visited the dentist regularly and they had the stability and education needed to practice regular hygiene. Duluth is a small city, but it’s the largest city in Northern Minnesota/Wisconsin and has two major hospitals, making it a medical hub for many people from the vast rural areas that surround it. These places have a much more varied socioeconomic status, full of folks who have less access to dental care, and/or prioritize it less.

In June, I got my first crown—one I actually needed (I hope? Truly, I’ll never know). And since then I haven’t been able to chew on the right side of my mouth. It’s no big deal, just six months. No worries! I’m fine! At my last dental cleaning in October, I shared this with the hygienist and she said, “Why didn’t you call us?” I didn’t know how to tell her 1) I wasn’t excited about dropping another $2000 on my teeth, 2) Shame for my own pain is ingrained in my soul and 3) I don’t love to call people. Do they have a texting line or email or something? I got a referral to a mythical creature: the Endodontist, who I assumed was kind of like the key maker in the Matrix.

He was not like the key maker in the Matrix! He was a bald man in scrubs who assumed I understood why I was there and who he was. He had to restart his computer during my session so I made charming small talk, “I don’t know anything about.. Teeth…? What’s the difference between what you do and what a dentist does?”

Here’s my crash course in Endodontrity! Endodontism! Endo-not-metriosis! Endodontists specialize in infection and performing root canals (his words). They deal with issues inside (“endo”) the tooth (“odont”) and dental pulp, which is a phrase that makes me want to puke a little and never have orange juice again.

In case you’re like me and the extent of your understanding of root canals is, “bad'“ and, “big ouch.” A root canal is when Mr.(Ms./Mx.) Endodontist severs the nerves that are in your teeth so they don’t cause you pain any more, then fill the canals in your tooth with composite and seal it all up so you can keep mashing your meals pain-free.

One of the things I loved about Hot Dentist is that he was happy to talk to me about my teeth, explain what I was looking at in x-rays, and didn’t treat me like I was an idiot—just like I hadn’t studied dentistry and missed the intensive dental study unit we all get in public school.

Not all doctors do this, and it’s a huge bummer. Just because I have no idea my mouth bones have tiny canals for tiny boats in them, doesn’t mean I don’t want to know. Understanding why I’m in pain, or why I need to spend $2000 on something that’s lurking in the back of my mouth is empowering, even if I still don’t want to spend that money.

The Endodontist peered into my mouth and immediately said, “Wow you’ve got great teeth.” To which replied, “Ank oo! Eye aa uh aw uh errr un!” He sprayed cold stuff on my teeth and had me bit down on a plastic stick a bunch of times until I said, “OW.” He asked me if I was taking pain medication, like I was supposed to be managing my pain instead of being in pain, which is the punishment for me failing to not have pain.

He took an x-ray, and had the… endo-hygenist? Assistant? Nice person also in scrubs? Lead me to a room where a machine hung from the ceiling. I stood under the machine and bit down on a sterilized plastic cover, locking me into the mind-melding fighting robot where I would telepathically connect with another operative to go into battle against ancient monsters. Or maybe that was a plot point of the Guillermo Del Toro masterpiece, Pacific Rim, but who am I to say? The machine whirred around my head taking photos like I was famous and it worked for TMZ and finally released me.

It took less than 20 minutes and I learned a lot:

1. It’s fun to be full of childlike wonder around healthcare professionals who don’t realize how fascinating their jobs are.

2. Endodontists deal with nerve damage and infections of your mouth bones and if your insurance isn’t exceptional, you will pay at least $500 at your first fifteen-minute visit.

3. There is nothing wrong with my mouth bones. Great news for my wallet and the right side of my mouth, who can continue to be on vacation, and terrible news for the left side of my mouth, which will continue to do all the chewing. It was explained to me that they could do a root canal for me on the tooth anyway, which showed no signs of infection or even distress, but an elective root canal sounds like something for a character from Little Shop of Horrors with a lot of disposable income, which I am not.

Like many healthcare professionals, despite the experience being just fine, I hope I never see him again.

I shared this last year, and I’ll share it again: I’m the kind of person who doesn’t set New Year’s Resolutions because change is silly when you’re this good (full of anxiety and cheese), but I do set goals, which are the same as resolutions, just packaged differently so I can feel smug about not focusing on trying to fix myself, but being happy with how I am complete and perfect being full of anxiety and cheese.

Behold! The list of 2025 goals. This year I put little emojis by them to fully embrace my Millennial-ness.

In retrospect, I love how my 2025 reminders were far-reaching, chaotic, and did not stay in their lane even a little. Everything from “Spend more time in the snow” to “Get a new tattoo” to “Submit 50 times” (LOLOLOLOL🙃😂🤮). I appreciate my broad intentions for 2025, and my year reflected that.

Here’s what I nailed and what I hammered into my thumb on accident:

Find a way to generate additional income. When I wrote this at the top of 2025 didn’t mean, “Get a full time job” but that is how it manifested. I even managed to find a job that I like a lot, despite it demanding at least forty hours of my life per week.

Read more essay collections: I read nine this year to last year’s seven. I love an essay collection, so if you know any bangers, send them my way please and thank you. My favorites this year were Shrill, by Lindy West (which I read twice), Girl on Girl by Sophie Gilbert, and I Want to Burn this Place Down by Maris Kreizman.

Leave the house daily. This has been on my reminders/goals/resolutions since 2021 and if you lived in a densely populated area in 2020, you may understand why. A lot has changed since 2021 and this will fall off my list this year. It’s not that getting outside is no longer important to me, but my life and day job have me outside a lot more than I was in the last four years, which was a huge part of my relocation to MN. I don’t know if I left the house every single day, but I’m getting much more outside time overall.

Create Quarterly Plans: I DID THIS! ONCE! This made sense to me because I started paying more attention to quarters when I was paying quarterly taxes (glamor of freelancing) and a writer I follow and admire, Julie Vick, does this. I did not make it work for me in 2025, but I may give it another swing in 2026.

Teach more yoga. 2025 can be divided into two sections: before getting a full time job and after. I taught a LOT of yoga before I got a full time job—in addition to adding a weekly class to my plate at the studio, I taught up to three times a week virtually from home, but by May, I stopped teaching entirely except for a couple times a month in person.

Read 40 books. In 2024 I read 72 books because not working full time is incredible for creative input. I knew replicating that would be hard, even if I didn’t get a job, but in 2025 I read 63 books, which I feel great about.

Learn 1 new knitting technique. I LEARNED TWO!

Get at least 1 tattoo: Finding a new tattoo artist has been hard, but in October I was in Philly for a week and spent part of that time getting inked. Thanks Ross at True Hand.

Sauna 4 times per month: If you’re new here/not obsessed with every aspect of my life, my day job is managing a fancy sauna experience. I expected this would be an easy goal for me to hit, but while I sauna’d more than 4 times some months, I only made it three times in December; our busiest time of year.

Figure out a sustainable routine: The vagueness here reminds me of Google comments I leave for myself that say, “Fix this.” I made progress though. Full time work sets limitations which forced me to work within specific structures.

Create and go on another writing retreat: Nailed it.

Collect 50 rejections: Perhaps my greatest flop of the year? I got nineteen.

Practice intentionality when purchasing clothing and dress for yourself: Also partially left over from the 2020-2023 days of not getting dressed at all. I’ve been keeping an unhinged spreadsheet to track my cost per wear of my non-CostCo clothing and I’m dressing for the Sarah gaze, which is like a cold witch who wants to carry a pretty stick she found in the woods home. My wardrobe is more black natural fibers in sack-shapes than ever and I’m cozy as hell1.

Spend more time in the snow. I spent a lot of time in the snow last year, including at least ten days on a snowboard.

What are we in for next year? As much as I loved my chaotic holistic look in 2025, I’m craving some stronger direction in writing this year.

These are almost entirely writing related, except for the bottom three which are interested in my corporeal being (fending off the osteoporosis that lurks in my bloodline) and yarn.

Sharing opinions may seem silly, but I can be embarrassingly neutral. I took a class with Caitlin Kunkel in 2025 where this came up and as a writer and especially satirist, having and sharing opinions is part of the work.

Do I cringe at the admission that I’m “trying to build my platform” YES. And publicly admitting that I’m working on a book proposal makes me nauseous, but facts be facts. Last year I spent roughly an hour writing daily, and I want to see what happens when I spend more time with the work.

There are plenty of other changes afoot for 2026: Full time work means I can afford a little therapy as a treat and being a new homeowner means there are plenty of projects to panic over. And there are things that will stay consistent, too. I’ll continue to knit a freakishly large amount, publish two-ish substacks a month, and consciously eat fiber for good poops. This is the way.

How do you New Years? Tell me Everything.

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I’m not surprised/disappointed about not making by a LOT, though though maybe should be? This is far from the first time I have failed spectacularly to make what seems like a reasonably attainable goal. It’s shifted over the years: I wanted to submit 75 times in 2021. I wanted to submit once per month in 2024. All of them sounded reasonable at the time, but I made the goals in the quiet reflection of a new year, while I often submit under my crippling anxiety of being blacklisted by a publication for being confused with the other Sarah Gardner who is deviously ruining my writing career on purpose (and does not exist).

There’s plenty that got in the way of this goal—I got a full time job for the first time in a couple years. We bought a house and moved. We went on two sizable trips. But life is always life-ing, so finding a way to produce work while living my chaos life is important. As is finding a way to give myself a little grace, but being nice to yourself is a lifelong practice for NERDS (and might make it to 2026’s goals list).

Anyway, here’s Wonderwall (/everything I published this year):

Circles of Hell for Badly Behaved Prospective Employers, Points In Case

It’s hard to be in one of the worst job markets of modern history and not regularly fantasize about terrible things befalling the people who treat you poorly. This piece was excellent therapy before I was able to find a job that covered part of my therapy. The title took me ages to land on and was a suggestion from one of the many folks who provided feedback on this piece.

How I Changed My Life By Bloodletting With Leeches, The Belladonna Comedy

This came out of two classes: the idea was born from Mining Your Life for Funny Ideas with Caitlin Kunkel, for whom I’m a known superfan, and the workshopping was done in Luke Burns’s Let’s Write More Short Humor Together, which he runs multiple sections of monthly and is an incredible way to meet writing friends. I’ve always had a repulsed fascination with leeches and influencers, so this piece was quicker to write than most (about two months from idea to submission, because despite the humor being short, it is also long).

Can We Get A Big Strong Man to Move This Reasonably Sized Object? The Belladonna Comedy

Speaking of dragging my feet, the inspiration for this piece came from being in a room with over a dozen abled-bodied women in early 2024 when the woman in charge asked the single man in the room, who I could have benched, to move a small, lightweight piece of furniture. I hate it. This piece was one of the most-read on Belladonna’s site of October, and editor Emily Kapp picked it as her favorite of that month, which was a huge treat for me.

Honest Zillow Postings, The Chortle

The Chortle is a newer publication that platforms on Substack and was introduced to me by a friend in Philadelphia. I had a great experience working with Greg, the editor, who had specifically put out a call for women writers. This piece was inspired by the writing acrobatics that real estate agents (or likely, ChatGPT that Real Estate agents feed) go through to make a house sound ultra appealing in their listings.

My Customer Service Voice Versus My Real Voice, Slackjaw Comedy

Inspired by the stranger I hear answering my work calls, who sounds SO nice and like she really has her shit together, I cranked this piece out in just a few sessions.

Other Writing from 2025:

Part of why I started a “newsletter”1 was to get my writing in front of other people without the stress and necessity of going through a submission process. I’m on track to have twenty-four published substacks for this year. Are they all amazing? No. But did I get them all out on time? No. But they’re out there, and so are the people reading them! Here are the highlights:

Everybody’s Favorite:

The post that got the most reads by a long shot (over 1300% of regular readership) was Hot Wax and a Shame Stack. I’ll pitch doing more embarrassing things in 2026, including having body hair and sweating.

Best Month for Substacks:

April featured both Theater Kids and Can’t Be Anything Without Buddies, which were straight bangers, if I’m being honest (other people also responded well to these, but I’m not going to pretend this isn’t a biased take).

My Favorite:

Foot Stuff! I loved writing about my irrational fear of Trench Foot and how it led to getting athlete’s foot for the first time as a grown ass person who once thought she had okay hygiene!

Honorable Mentions:

Two other posts that received a lot of attention this year were My Body Type is Pissed Off, where I yell about the rise of semaglutides and how its presence in the media has affected my mental health. It was both affirming and a bummer to see I’m not alone in this.

How I Built A Writing Retreat is a post I make annually about the retreat I take, large or small, to focus on a single writing project. This year was short humor and folks seemed to like seeing how I structure these getaways.

Biggest Flop:

Less Than Ideal Travel Itinerary Part III was the least-beloved piece. I just reread it and it’s kind of a bummer. Who wants to relive being stuck in an airport? NOT ME!

My substack eeked into the triple digits this year, with a growth rate for 168%, which is probably less impressive than it sounds, and not likely a sustainable rate of growth, but I still think that’s pretty cool. Thanks for being here.

If you’re a paid subscriber, THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE CAPITALIST LOVE LETTER OF MONEY. Hang tight for your annual snail-mailed thank you, and if you’ve changed your address and I don’t have it yet, let me know!

Other Updates:

• I love goals and you bet I’ll be yapping about them in January: the ones I failed, the ones I nailed (YES I DID GET A TATTOO IN 2025!) and the new ones I’m thinking about in 2026.

• Last year I closed out Substack on 12/31 with a photo per month and it was delightful (for me. I have no idea if y’all liked it) so expect one more post form me in 2025 that has 0-50 words.