This is the voice of doom calling (or is it?)
Well, that was weird
When I switched over to Substack and called this newsletter “Little Happies,” I set an intention.
I like finding and sharing everyday joys. I like reruns and miniatures and finding jeans that fit. I wouldn’t describe myself as an optimist, in part because I’m a depressive—a little happy depressive. A gray area, where I search and struggle to find my seat in this life. My glass is never half full or half empty. It’s shiny. It’s breakable.
Recently, I had an essay published in an outlet I consider to be geared toward adults in the literary space. Its original title was: “Adults Read Young Adult Literature, so Why Aren’t We Talking About It?” The essay, or rather a tweet promoting the essay, got a lot of traction—the bad kind. It became intrusive and abusive, and soon after, I deleted the Twitter/X app from my phone.
Logically, I know we were never meant to know the thoughts of thousands (millions, billions) of people. I knew this even ten (!) years ago, when someone called me an “ugly Jew” online. I have been called a lot of things in my time on social media. (I’m a woman, that’s A, and B, I have opinions, and C, I have made the mistake of wanting a life wherein things I make are subject to public scrutiny.)
The post that, weirdly, hurt most before I deleted the app was a dig at my author photo—something about how I looked like the kind of person who would advise eliminating dairy and “negativity” as a cure for cancer. That I wanted to take books away from young people. That it was hard to take me seriously because of my author photo.
It gutted me. It did. Not because I’m lactose intolerant. Not because of all the people I love who have had cancer. Mostly, because it was such easy, knee-jerk fun for a stranger to mock me for the way I chose to look on the jacket of my first-ever book. A book I wrote about the first time my dad went to prison while I was growing up.
I wanted the headshot I chose to appear hopeful. A little happy. Not a “serious” headshot. The book is inherently serious; it’s about a tough time in my life. The happy is being alive. The happy is making it not out, but through.
So I retreated into myself. And couple of days later, I left the cave to read at a gorgeous event here in Philly—A Writer’s Party, not to be confused with AWP (for any writers reading this). There were so many fantastic people reading and being. Old friends, new friends. Friends.
I read from new poems, one of which I wrote the morning of the event. I had been thinking about what it would take for me to want to live in this world, or any world. I had been thinking about the last time I felt so acutely low. I wanted to document it, claim it, because there will be times in the future when I feel this way again, whether it’s chemical or circumstantial or both.
And you know, I took inventory. Romy and Michele's High School Reunion is getting a sequel. My beloved Equalizer is back with a new season. I watched the sisterly action movie Polite Society and loved it.
I told myself: Name a thing and then another thing. That’s all you have to do. Let it be enough. I did. Finally, it was.
Some days later, I got to see the wonderful
for lunch here in Philly on her day trip in to revisit her forthcoming book, Leave: A Postpartum Account (out from Autofocus in 2025). Shayne is a bright light of a person, the human equivalent of a bear hug. That warm, that real. Being in the real world with my agent sibling (we’re both represented by the also wonderful Ashley Lopez) was another reminder of the unalone. The being. Being present, being here in the dirt and sky of the world together.
I haven’t returned to see whatever’s waiting for me in the void of Twitter/X. Now though, with distance, a single thought can pause my anxiety spiral: What that person wrote isn’t evil; it’s just not good.
You know what is good? The ethereal yet wholly human Beautyland by Marie-Helene Bertino. My experience narrating the audiobook of Disappearing Act, which comes out tomorrow. The way my dog goes full Dog Baby on the couch before his final “walk” (if you can call it that) of the night. A $40 facial spa that is essentially a humidifier for your face that comes with stainless steel tools you probably shouldn’t use unless you are a dermatologist. Faces! Lines. Eggs. Big-hearted Temim “The Dream” Fruchter reading from her glowing debut, City of Laughter, and being in conversation with ever-excellent
at H&H in Fishtown. The episode of Bob’s Burgers where Louise recites her poem in the library. Chocolate cupcakes from a mix. Sitting in a circle with other writers, sharing an aura for an evening. Yogi bicycles on your blue mat in your house with your eyes closed. Being woken by a ghost tap on the back of your neck—the map of your body, the strange miracle of it. And the simple fact: You are here.
I’ve said some things, but that’s it, isn’t it? You are here. I am here. That’s miracle enough for one night. Any night.