I Guess I’m a Writer, Now—Whoops

Oh, we BACK back

Photo by me, of a nice frog that I saw at Storm King this summer, and that embodies a nonplussed-ness I often identify with.

Hi friends,

Me again. I recently described this newsletter, in a fairly professional document, as a “monthly” one, which was just enough accountability to send me back to the ‘stack. Once again, I’m faced with the central contradiction of this standing dispatch about writing, which is that the more I’m writing, the more I fail at keeping it up. And I have, I suppose, been writing a lot: I’ve started to sink into a new full-length project; keeping up with my column at The Walrus; pitching other ideas.

It was a strange summer for me, humid and anxious and existentially stagnant, and writing was one of the only spaces in which I felt grounded and real. As is the case for many creative people, writing has always occupied the logistical periphery of my life while feeling, on a good day, like the conceptual center. I guess, over the past six months, it has slid more and more toward feeling like the actual center—which is something that I’ve always been a little afraid of. I have, in fact, been known to construct elaborate psychological and even actual artifices to avoid confronting that very possibility (hi, law school). I’ve always found it easier to claim some kind of institutional affiliation—academic, editorial, whatever—and then sprinkle a little I’m also a writer on top like it adds a little zest, rather than lead with the latter. (At a literary festival, a writer actually called me on this once, after I introduced myself by saying where I worked—like, “You have a book? Why didn’t you say that first?” And, you know, they were right! It was not the place to act like Generic Party Guest! We were literally all there because we have books!)

More than once, over the past six months, I’ve had the thought, “I guess I’m a writer, now—whoops” (literally to the tune of Elton John’s “and I guess that’s why they call it the blues,” for a little glimpse of what it’s like inside my head.) I don’t mean to rehash overdone talking points about day jobs or imposter syndrome or the like. We know the arts are badly funded and precarious. What I’m trying to say is that being able to cop to this little Elton John on my shoulder feels like progress and that it is a kind of progress that is difficult for me, so I’d like to clock it when it happens. Because that little psychological shift has also—surprise!—been good for the work. Not just because of what it makes possible on the page, but what it enables as a way of moving through the world—a receptiveness and curiosity; an openness to a line or a story idea or an affective quality.

All that said, here’s what I’ve been up to, aka why I’ve been so bad at keeping this up:

1. The aforementioned column at The Walrus. I’ve been lucky that they let me cover basically whatever tickles my fancy, which usually tends to cluster around questions of writing and publishing, because I’m nothing if not consistent. Recent and/or favorite essays have included my contribution to the growing canon of Goodreads ire and a piece about one of my special bugbears, Canadian content regulations. I’ll continue to keep cropping up over there in the coming months.

2. I’m incredibly fortunate to have been awarded a Shearing Fellowship with the Black Mountain Institute. I’m a huge fan of the work BMI does and I’m also a huge fan of Las Vegas, where they’re based and where I’ll be spending spring 2024 while I work on my next book.

3. Finally, in previous (current?) book news, Some of My Best Friends will be published in paperback in 2024! With a brand new cover (two covers, actually, one in Canada and one in the US) and a shiny new subtitle (just one of those, thank god; coming up with a rebrand that ticked all the boxes was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.) I’ll share covers, release dates, and preorder info soon.

Thanks for sticking around. And I’ll see you next month, when we return to our regularly scheduled programming. For real.