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Not being the next Joan Didion

"I'm not the next Joan Didion, and I'm okay with that. [...] I'm the first of me, but to my own surprise, it's much more difficult to come to terms with that." Every word I write is a victory over my impostor syndrome. It's always telling me my writing should be different. Less like me, more like other, much more successful online writers. Seeing how many of those writers aspire to be like Joan Didion, I felt like I was doing something wrong in not wanting to be like her. My doubts and fears about (not) being like Didion turned into a Substack post that struck a chord with others, and myself. For once, I was proud of something I'd written. I hope you'll give it a chance and a read too 🖤

@envy

Aug 18, 2024

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Reading at open mics

Read a ten minute prose I wrote at an open mic of my own curation, and that I hosted through my org (black girl fight club) on Wednesday night, in Chinatown… to like 50-60ish people. It was in amidst a quite wonderful art exhibit I co-curated with a friend (if I do say so myself). It was awesome. probably got 15 rounds of laughter during my piece. & a lot of praise. surreal. partly because it’s always surreal to produce an event, partly because when you read fast and real and long you black out, and during public speaking; especially off of an all nighter and a tad of hypomania. It’s the second time I’ve read at an open mic. again for lack of a better word: awesome. Then thursday night, last night– I did another reading. Bikini themed- on a roof in bedstuy (with notably no black people this time. Which for some reason I noted in my preamble). I knew no one there. except my best friend, who came with me. Another long ass prose. Cause that’s who I am. I went last. People laughed a lot and then listened to the serious parts then laughed again. One of favorite compliments is being told I’m funny. I used to never be able to really receive a compliment, I’d put a very fake voice on and give a very fake thank you. This year I’m truly proud of myself for the first time ever. It feels good to digest things you deserve genuinely; my mom doesn’t do it; I grew up not doing it; why not? I should. I’m growing up perhaps. Several people came up to me after and gave me kind genuine ass comments and praise. I chatted a lot with very nice individuals. they asked where they could read my writing they got my number and asked to send or followed me to see when is release, I don’t have anything released. And I felt on top of the world on that rooftop, and very real. Not hypomanic any longer, at least for all of yesterday. This summer has been consistently abundant and divine. I’ve felt abundantly full and swallowing gratitude. not for just what’s coming next or graduating or my accomplishments but for the love of my friends and traveling and the love of loves sake and sweet treats and the sun. I like to laugh loud. I want to go all the way with this writing stuff nowadays. Well I’m a renaissance woman and want to be a giant rose garden that is every color and grows everywear and then an 100 year old pine tree. And then a single rose that wilts on a first love’s or final love’s dresser and never forgotten. And be funny and real raw and relatable. A storyteller and all the things. And real artists writers and real listeners and peers of blackness and whiteness east coast and otherwise transplants and otherwise from my Alma mater and otherwise my friends my mutuals and complete strangers alike are looking and listening intently and think my words are worthwhile. I’m a professional yapper, I know, hence the long ass pieces. And the nights spent talking to my friends for hours on end. But a professional writer? I never thought I could go all the way- regardless of format… only when a few professors and teachers of my past really told me from their hearts at times, a few times… but peers feels so enlightening a lot more a lot of the time. They have a distinguished pulse, the respectable ones. So I guess it’s time to launch (or relaunch) the Substack and do more open mics and less close friends stories. And to just let it be how it should. You should hop on the mic if you feel like the timing is divine too And the spirit compels you. I ate carvel and a Cinnabon (it was combined in one establishment) leaving the reading last night). carvel is my favorite soft serve and they barely have any in New York. And I love Cinnabon so dearly. My best friend never had carvel she said it’s “actually pretty good” but it’s my favorite. I had vanilla with rainbow sprinkles. When I got to her house, I ate the Cinnabon after microwaving it. I was supposed to save it for tomorrow. But why save something deliciously sweet and divine and blessed for the next day when you can chew it and swallow it when you want it right now in the presence of someone you love and wants the best for you. who you held hands with in the car all the way home. I massaged myself with this special healing cream I have, then massaged her feet and calves. My friend on the other side of the country called me and she is coming here next week we are going to heal ourselves, body spirit and mind together. be little girls and big girls and be artists and date each other abd cuddle up - just like our 3-headed deer tattoo we all got together on my friend’s birthday. in the grand scheme of things we haven’t even known each other long, one of them less than a year. Who cares. Love isn’t about that. love is about being a deer, prey and pretty and sweet, hunted and prancing in the forest and front lawns, survivors and spotted, fairy tales Bambi movies children’s books filled with gunshots overpopulated — & on 3 heads, one body, resting on the shoulders of three girls who found home in each other and fell in love And will share that til their skin rots and they become poems and memoirs, rose gardens and star dust.

@gabz

Aug 2, 2024

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on reading: mary gaitskill's substack-out of it

@mariamaria

Nov 28, 2024

Top Recs from @head_olive_cephalopod

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PERSIMMON FROM KOREA

Had a meeting with a client last week. She’s moving to Korea and shared her version of “soul food” with myself and colleague. These were so sweet - natures mochi almost… Loved the texture, and she served them on the sweetest china I’ve ever seen. She says the shipping cost was insane because they were imported from Korea - but well worth it, wow.

@head_olive_cephalopod

2d ago

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I RECOMMEND: MY OWN PIECE…

I hope you keep what resonates, and leave what doesn’t. I deleted IG for years. I got back on last August and have felt compelled to write - usually in moments where I’m broken open. My most recent piece I lay here for you: My Melodramatic Dispatch 💌 (pt 1 of ?) TLDR: The girls are fighting but they’re metaphors. Enjoy :) (ft. life lately) I like to think that Quiet and Silence are like sisters. And what’s the difference between them? Quiet sighs sweetly with you in small and unnoticed moments--like pausing to admire spring blossoms, or the stillness after finishing a book you didn’t want to end. She reaches for your hand and pulls you close--offering an embrace during life’s painful moments. In grief, she sits beside you, feeling your ache and holding space for precious memories. She smiles wryly as two strangers catch eyes--feeling the world fade, and the pull of an invisible thread between them. When words fall short in sacred moments, she holds the fragile stillness of a shared, knowing gaze. Quiet is a gentle strength. She is permission to savor, to soften, to stay. Quiet is a doe resting peacefully on a sunlit patch of earth, present & unafraid. Silence looks at you sharply, unrelenting. She sees past your facade and dares you to face the truth. She sits--sovereign & accusing--in the breathless gap of a lover’s quarrel. Her presence--undeniable and weighty--strips you bare, leaving only your soul. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as your lover walks through it, slamming the door behind them. She doesn’t flinch. She walks over, kneels beside you, & calmly places a hand on your shoulder. Silence is not cruel, but a reckoning. She rages. She deafens & consumes. She is a wave--denying you air as she pulls you under the weight of her. As sisters, of course they argue. They arrive at the door of your moment--an unanswered text, an awkward pause, a delayed response--& bicker about who the waiting belongs to. Silence sneers, mocking your vulnerability. She floods your head with panic, cringe, & regret. Quiet protests gently, insisting there’s no need to spiral--nothing has been lost: not your dignity, not your strength, not your beauty or worth.  Ironically during the purgatory of a message left unanswered, or the unnatural lull in connection,  you have neither sister. Only a cacophony of what-ifs & anxiety. But as sisters, of course they reconcile. (To be continued…)

@head_olive_cephalopod

9h ago

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BEFORE IG SEES IT: MIRROR SELFIE FROM WORK

Felt like this lines up with that new TikTok trend (yes - before you raise your nose up at me - I do enjoy TikTok’s). It’s a trend where women show the juxtaposition of them in casual/masculine leaning outfits, and then them in ultra feminine/glam looks. It’s fun.

@head_olive_cephalopod

2d ago