On Literary Citizenship

You and me, we are gonna be (writing) friends

Joan Jonas installation at the Museum of Modern Art. It reminds me of a dark and lonely forest.

It’s August and this is the first time I’ve opened Substack to write since we turned the calendar page away from 2023. No excuses, it’s just been a pretty busy year. I thought it would be less busy because I’d finished my MFA. I thought this state of less busy would mean I would spend a lot of time working to complete a draft of my book, approximately another 100-plus pages.

But no. Until recently,  I hadn’t really written. At all. Even after joining an online writing group meant to push our projects toward completion with daily check-ins and mutual agreements and so forth. I just didn’t write much, at least not in a way that felt like progress.

Why? It’s not that I don’t have the drive or the time, it is, perhaps, that I am really good at using my drive to fill the time with other activities (beyond my job, of course).

It’s also, if I’m being honest, that I’m afraid. Afraid my book is terrible, will be terrible, has always been terrible and all future versions of it will be even more terrible. Afraid that I will finish a draft and not know how to “fix” it. Afraid that I will bully myself out of submitting a book proposal or related essays because I can’t stomach the idea of rejection.

(I’ve named my interior bully after a girl from my high school who was, shall we say, less than unkind to me on many occasions. When I feel that bully roaring her Regina George-styled head I try to remember to shush her with a fierce, Fuck off, E___). (No, I will not share her name here because it’s fairly uncommon but, weirdly, she’s started showing up in my Facebook “People You May Know” algorithm, which …no thank you?!?)

All of this fear eventually led to a sense of malaise. A nothing-matters-and-what-if-it-did moodiness. Which has led to a sense of dread when kind, well-meaning folks ask how the book is going.

Oh, that old thing?

It’s all I can do not to affect a southern accent and bless-your-heart the hell out of my book. The little book that couldn’t, poor dear.

Then I had a Zoom with a graduate school friend. A friend who’d recently landed an amazing book deal and here I was, afraid to even talk about the mess of words I’ve spent the last four years writing. By the way, when Lisa Levy’s book on migraines, a hybrid of memoir and literary criticism, comes out, you’re going to want to read it.

Of course—lucky me—this friend is not only a great writer, but she’s also an even better friend. 

What you’re feeling is normal, she reassured me when I admitted the sense of blah I’d battled since graduation. When the Zoom ended, I felt a sense of gratitude.

Shortly after this conversation I FaceTimed with another graduate school friend; while he doesn’t have a book deal—yet—his writing is so smart, clear, and enthralling that I know it’s only a matter of time. He’s also incredibly funny and kind and our check-in boosted me with a sense of optimism I hadn’t felt in quite a while.

During our conversation, the topic of literary citizenship came up and, this too, renewed for me a feeling of I can do this because it was a much-needed reminder that I don’t have to go it alone. None of us do.

Being a writer is typically a solitary endeavor and even if you’re an avowed introvert like me, that can be isolating and demoralizing. It feels like traversing a dark forest alone, one filled with shadows and doubt.

Literary citizenship pushes writing out of this desolate realm and into a town square. It means interacting with other writers in a supportive fashion. 

It also, even more importantly, means taking the time to read others’ work, share it, offering feedback if requested, and sharing resources when possible. It means subscribing to your friends’ newsletters and Substacks and sharing them with your friends. If you can afford to and are genuinely so inclined, opt for the paid tier. But, also, no pressure!

On the flip side, I’m of the firm belief that literary citizenship also requires honing the skill to thoughtfully accept, acknowledge, and dissect any constructive feedback given. Time is our most valued and shareable resource. (This is not to say that receiving means reciprocating. There should be zero expectations of such unless it’s explicitly agreed upon by everyone involved).

Literary citizenship reminds us that although the actual writing may occur in solitude, the act of being a writer requires community--is better for it, in fact. 

It means that not only do we cheer our friends from the sidelines, but we provide them with water and snacks and musical playlists and a new set of shoes when the old ones finally wear out. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Well, the snacks and playlists are real and if you’re a size 9, I can offer several extra pairs of gently worn shoes if you need them.

Even better, you don’t have to get an MFA or sign up for residencies to engage in literary citizenship (these things are great if you have the time, budget, and emotional wherewithal to pursue) because the internet and social media allow us to make that town square as big and all-encompassing as we could possibly want.

After our FaceTime, my kind and funny friend sent me a link to Esme Weigan Wang’s Substack essay on literary citizenship.

In it, Wang recounts a time when Lit Hub lauded her, along with several of her contemporaries, as a “good literary citizen” in its annual “If They Gave Oscars to Books” feature. Specifically, the literary journal praised Wang as a “voice of Twitter reason”.

“I was surprised by this, but proud. I was thrilled to be considered a good literary citizen because while my books have a life of their own, I can exert more control over my behavior in the literary community,” Wang wrote. “But retweeting other people’s promotional stuff and tweeting about your new favorite book isn’t the only thing that makes for a good literary citizen.”

In response to Lit Hub’s ‘award,” Wang asked others what they thought constituted literary citizenship. 

Among the answers: Posting positive reviews (“This is a controversial one, but … unless you’re a reviewer for a publication who is required to have strong opinions of all kinds, it might not make sense to talk shit on Instagram about that new book that you just DNF’d (did not finish,” Wang wrote),  offering strategic support that aligns with your capabilities, whether that’s buying your peers’ books, promoting them on social media and attending their events. 

Inclusivity was another suggestion, from none other than my kind and funny friend: 

“The word ‘citizen’… becomes charged when I think about its historic exclusion of access, so I do wonder at and lean into other notions and words of connection,” Michael Todd Cohen shared.  “I seek out literary ‘kin,’ which to me, more than the guardrails of any society, asks for communion more than compliance.”

The idea of literary citizenship is applicable, with adjustments as necessary, across disciplines: Art, theater, dance, music, etc.

Recently, a group of friends and I embarked upon a 14-day writing exercise. We’ve been meeting semi-regularly since the start of the year and one of us suggested Jami Attenberg’s fantastic #1000WordsofSummer as a model. Since 2018, Attenberg has hosted #1000WordsofSummer as a writing boot camp of sorts every June (with a few mini camps scattered throughout the year as well). The concept? To churn out (my phrasing, not hers!)  a thousand words a day for two weeks as a way to shut out the inner, nagging voices of defeat and subterfuge. Allow for chaos on the page. As scaffolding for this endeavor, we scheduled Zoom meetups, set up a Slack with channels for daily word counts, craft tips, and other writing miscellany. 

One thousand words in fourteen days would be, obviously, fourteen thousand words. Some of my friends blew past that number while I barely made the word count--but instead of disappointment I felt a sense of exhilaration. During the exercise I drafted two chapters including one that I’d avoided writing during the entire graduate school run because it had been too painful to approach. With an eye toward hitting an approximate word count I allowed myself to power through the words, ignoring sections that didn’t make sense, free writing through the terrible memories, allowing for cliches and tired imagery with the idea that I would come back later to revise.

I also allowed for companionship and a sense of solidarity as we rooted each other on in the Slack channel.

Literary citizenship can be so many things but distilled to its essence its generosity, kindness, honesty, and a gifting of our time. And isn’t that nice?

The August Edit *

While I’m here, I wanted to share some things I’ve been loving or thinking about lately.

Rashida Jones in “Sunny”.

Robots and Monsters: Two recent TV shows have been filling a weird little niche in my soul lately. Sunny, starring Rashida Jones, explores the intersection between technology, memory, and grief. The show, set in Japan, chronicles Jones’ character’s journey as she both mourns the loss of her husband and son in a plane crash and seeks to unravel the truth behind what actually happened—and who her husband actually was while alive. All of this while accompanied by Sunny, the “homebot” gifted to her by her husband’s employer, a supposed appliance company. Meanwhile, on Eric, Benedict Cumberbatch and Gabby Hoffman play, with devastating authenticity, early 80s-era parents trying to find their young son who’s gone missing in the heart of New York City. Cumberbatch’s character is a self-destructive and arrogant puppet maker, while Hoffman’s embodies a sense of conflict between motherhood and self-actualization. There’s also a strong metaphor here for the idea that which we fear the most are the literal and figurative monsters beneath the bed but to avoid spoilers I’ll leave it at that.

Doubles Trouble: If you haven’t already read it, I strongly recommend Naomi Klein’s techno-memoir, Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World. On the surface it’s about all the frustrating ways Klein is often confused with Naomi Wolfe, the feminist writer turned conspiracy theorist. On a deeper, richer level, it’s about the dizzying online netherworld dominated by social media bots, radical influencers, entrepreneurs and “thought leaders” at either extreme end of the political spectrum, the rise of authoritarianism and the unsettling unmooring of reality all this continues to produce.

Gen X, Baby: For my Gen X compatriots, this Harper’s Bazaar Winona Ryder profile on how the actress, after a few decades of tumult, has finally “made it to the other side” feels particularly poignant following the death of her Heathers’ co-star, Shannen Doherty. (Godspeed, Brenda Walsh!)

The art of craft: In the spirit of literary citizenship, there are two Substacks I’d like to especially recommend this month, both from former Goucher classmates. Shannon Tsonis’ Memoir Beneath the Dogwood Tree,  is a place to ponder memoir: publication, essays, proposals, reviews, guest interviews, as well as Tsonis’ journey to publishing her memoir, which is both a coming of age story and a detailed account of her quest for justice in solving her mother's 1989 murder. I’m in an ongoing writing group with Tsonis and so happy to see this Substack finally out in the wild. Over at Write at the Edge, Mallary Tenore Tarpley pens a regular newsletter about the craft of writing. Tarpley’s upcoming memoir, Slip, blends deep reporting with personal experience to chronicle her “lived experience” with anorexia. Tarpley was in my very first class at Goucher and I’m deeply thrilled that her book will be out in the world come 2025.

Still gone, girl: In a world obsessed with the trope of missing girls (missing white girls, to be exact), the case of Amy Wroe Bechtal, nonetheless holds a deep significance for me. Bechtal went missing after going for a jog in Wyoming in July 1997. That same month, fresh from leaving a long-term, abusive relationship, I was on a road trip from Sacramento to Chicago with my friend Jill at the time. As her disappearance dominated the regional headlines in the towns through which we traveled, it added weight to the repeated warnings we received from strangers on our trip: Two young women out on the road alone? Be careful. I’ve been thinking about Bechtal a lot lately as I write about this period in my life and new details of her disappearance reveal new angles that acutely overlap with my own experience then. This 1998 Outside magazine story on Bechtal, who was declared legally dead in 2004, only tells part of the story but it’s a good place to start.

And, finally, a playlist to see summer through its most doggedness of days, available via Spotify and Apple Music.

August: Everybody’s Talkin’

1. “Everybody’s Talkin” – Harry Nilsson. Twenty-five years ago this week, Cory and I exchanged vows on the stage at Old Ironsides in front of approximately one hundred of our friends and family. We walked down the aisle to this song, which is also on the soundtrack of “Midnight Cowboy,” the film we saw at the Crest Theatre on our first date.

2.  “Pink Skies” – Zach Bryan. I’d heard of Zach Bryan before I heard this song but my idea of who he was as an artist was completely uninformed. This song, which I first on the radio early one morning as I drove to the airport, completely upended my preconceived notions. It’s moody, literary, and haunting.

3. “Summer People,” The Webb Brothers. One evening during the summer of 2000, Cory and I drove out to the airport to get a frozen yogurt and sit in a nearly empty gate to watch the planes arrive and depart in the golden light. In the car, we listened to this song, from the sons of songwriter Jimmy Webb, epitomizes a pre-9/11 world for me—one filled with a naïve promise and sense of optimism.

4. “Ashes Back to Vegas,” Pete Krebs. When I worked at Old Ironsides I was lucky enough to book acts that I personally loved. In the early 2000s, My boss at the time, and all-time best friend, Kim and I booked one of our favorite singer-songwriters, Pete Krebs. He put on a fantastic show, even though he didn’t play our favorite song. When Kim mentioned this to him, he pulled up a stool in front of the bar, motioned us closer, and performed an acoustic version of this track. I may have cried happy tears.

5. “Hit ‘Em Up Style,” Carolina Chocolate Drops. Earlier this year I put this track on a playlist based on Beyonce’s “Texas Hold ‘Em” and months later I still can’t get enough.

6. “Workin’ Woman Blues,” Valerie June. Another “Texas Hold ‘Em” playlist entry that remains in regular rotation. It’s soulful, restless, and so damn good.

7. “Years,” Sierra Ferrell.  Sierra Ferrell may end up being my favorite new-to-me artist this year and while this is a cover of a John Prine song, she absolutely makes it her own. For an original of hers, be sure to check out “Dollar Bill Bar” or “Fox Hunt”. Her voice is warm and rich and her personality—cowgirl princess fairy—is authentically quirky.

8. “My Golden Years,” The Lemon Twigs. Cory is obsessed with this band, fronted by two brothers, and for good reason. I love the sunny power pop kick of this track.

9. “Red Wine Supernova,” Chappell Roan. This song is gloriously catchy, and, in a world of homogenized Disney pop stars, Roan is delightfully odd and one hundred percent herself – costumes, offbeat personas, glitter and all. Consider me officially part of the Pink Pony Club.

10. “OMG” – Suki Waterhouse. I’ve been on a major glossy pop kick lately (taking bets on whether Renee Rapp’s “Not My Fault” ends up as my most-played track of the year) and, in turn, am absolutely obsessed with this dark and edgy banger from British singer Suki Waterhouse. Eagerly awaiting her new full-length record, Memoir of a Sparklemuffin, out on Sub Pop,  next month.

11. “Glitter,” Earl. This jaunty track samples Lew Stone & his Monseigneur Band’s version of the 1932 song, "My Woman,” which was written by Bing Crosby. You may recognize the notes from It was prominently used in White Town's 1997 hit "Your Woman".

12. “Living in a Ghost Town,” The Rolling Stones. The Stones released this track during the summer of 2020, and, at the time, it perfectly epitomized the loneliness of a pandemic summer. Four years later, it still resonates with a nostalgic sense of melancholy.

*The August Edit” implies there will also be a September—and so on and so forth—edit. I will try!