When I was a kid, I had a wallpaper trim creating a border in the centre of the otherwise blue walls of my bedroom. I’m sure there’s a proper term for this kind of wallpaper division, and if there is please tell me as I’m clearly just
Essays
Every time I write the intro to an essay lately I feel I am at my most John Wick, all tired and hunched over. Saying yeah, I’m thinking I’m back in my most charming monotone. I submitted the revisions on my book, and this is what has made
Hey everyone. Trying something new or this week, I took an opportunity to have a long chat with journalist and musician Jael Holzman, who alongside her incredible band Ekko Astral, just got off the road touring with Ted Leo and the Pharmacists and Idles. I wrote a little about their
I've been less than consistent with getting to these. I realize that I've been missing the occasional Tuesday here and there and this is me apologizing without ever once saying I'm sorry. I'm overworked, tired, a little burnt out. Gassy. And now,
It is easy to find despair in all things right now. I know this is an exceptional bummer and a helluva way to start a newsletter, especially after writing about Elliott Smith last week which led at least three people to write and say "hey, you okay?" No.
Essays
When did we become so banal and unserious that sadness and the songs that sing it aren’t allowed in polite company anymore?
I'm prefacing all of this by saying I know I'm annoyed, and I'm aware of how often annoyed is the gateway drug to being annoying. Edging on frustration. I haven't had to think about gender for a long time, not in a
Let me tell you that I had big plans this week. BIG plans. A Tuesday newsletter. a Friday newsletter. I was going to write thousands of words, each one of them perfectly placed, no mistakes, no slips of grammar. We all have big plans and intentions, and just like the
I am returned from a journey home, and if you have ever moved away from home and then gone back to visit you know exactly what I’m saying when I tell you my chest is still recovering from the journey. It was a good trip, kind of the perfect
I’ve got a lot of memory loss, which is a funny thing for someone who writes a lot in memoir and self-centred stories to admit. I am my own little unreliable narrator, coaxed on by shards of memory and questions texted to old friends and an older sister. A
I foolishly want milestones to mean something, less out of desperation and more from a desire for days and landmarks to mean more than they are capable of. Values I placed on monuments that live only as washed out images in the rearview, all half-remembered and fading out of view.
I’ve been thinking a lot about dads lately, which I’m sure is a by-product of moving through the rough draft and obsessive meandering of book writing (The Dad Rock That Made me a Woman, available….). Someone was asking me this weekend how I write, how I made it
