I said I'd write this newsletter for three months; I did!

In 2020, amidst heartbreak, an art heartbreak, a change of cities, and a pandemic, I witnessed the beginning of the so-called “newsletter boom.” Substack hadn’t yet enshittified or shown its Nazi colors, and it seemed like there was a revival of the blog era. I obsessively read writers like Alicia Kennedy and Fariha Róisìn, who wrote relentlessly, with a kind of integrity of voice born from full dominion over the publication. I loved a “link roundup,” opening a dozen tabs to read the sharpest writing on the internet. I enjoyed these parasocial relationships, the intimacy of this first-person writing, and how it contextualized and enriched the authors’ work published in books or other publications. I wanted my own newsletter.

At the time, I was trying to teach myself to write creative nonfiction. Some intense graphomania took hold of me post-breakup and mid-lockdown: I took edibles and a bath, then wrote on the floor of the bathroom while listening to Joni Mitchell. I wrote endless pages about grieving and loathing (but still loving) the theatre. I wrote my way through a deep politicization. I wrote about heartbreak, trying to diagnose why why why he dumped me (my bad politics? My smudged eyeglasses?). 

One day, after weeks or months of writing, I created a several-dozen-page-long PDF full of what (my frenemy) T.S. Eliot would call “fragments I have shored against my ruin”—snippets and scraps of unfinished writing. I called the file “things to print to see if they’re still true.” I put them in a blue canvas binder where I kept sheet music when I was a teenager. Opening that binder today, I see that a bunch of that writing was dreaming about a newsletter. I spilled a lot of ink clearing my throat, imagining how I would introduce it, how I would convince both myself and you that it was a worthwhile project.

Despite these desires, I felt much too terrified to begin. Also, looking back, I lacked some fundamental writing skills: the ability to build a non-fiction structure intuitively, the ability to finish works. That blue binder is full of some sharp sentences, but a struggle to pull together anything cohesive. I’m proud, looking back, of how much I’ve grown by plugging away: reading widely and intensely, teaching teenagers to write term papers, writing grants, and writing thousands of frustrating words that I’ll never publish. Now, I can confidently produce a decent draft of an essay in a few hours. At the time, though, in the words of Ira Glass, it was the “long, dark period of sucking.” 

In the fall of 2023, after several years and so much longing, I launched the previous iteration of this newsletter as Art Gardening. I didn’t give myself a particular cadence or deadline, which was a blessing and a curse. I didn’t have enough confidence and quickness as a writer to spit work out quickly, so I belabored each post. Part of the pleasure of blogging or newsletter-ing is its ephemerality; next week, there’s something new, so nothing can be precious. But I was clinging pretty tight. I published eleven posts in a year (many of which were solid), but with a somewhat random cadence, which led me to constantly judge myself for not producing more. I kept this up for about a year, then lapsed for a year. 

In the fall of 2025, I gave myself the season to dedicate to writing. I didn’t take on any other projects, and I signed up for a class. Around the same time, a writing group emerged through happenstance and chemistry. For six weeks, I had two deadlines a week. I felt immensely held by this structure. After years of berating myself for not writing enough, fearing that I am going to die and I will not have written what is mine to write, this season taught me that I’m not lacking discipline; I just need a lot of support. My first home was the theatre, a collaborative artform where you barely ever have to be alone. So in this solo art form, I need a lot of friends, a lot of editors, a lot of deadlines, a lot of solidarity. I hope to remind myself, each time the I’m-not-writing-enough despair creeps in, that it’s time to call a writer friend, sign up for a class, schedule a coaching, go to a co-working session, etc. 

Out of this structure, on the first Friday in December, the first 83 of you got a message announcing that this newsletter was back under a new name. I set a finite goal: I would publish every Friday for three months and then re-evaluate. Today, I’ve reached that milestone! I’m taking myself to the Fremont Vintage Mall to buy some grandma-y earrings, then I’m going to the spa, where I’ll read my book in the hot tub in the unseasonably sunny weather. I did it!!

I’ve loved writing this newsletter these last three months. My favorite essays I published were “The Aloneness of Love” (an exploration of James Baldwin and falling in love), “Do I Dare” (my wrestling with T.S. Eliot, his conservatism, and my attempts to reclaim him), and “The Backflip” (my ode to summertime). I also loved writing I Will Always Love You, an advice column for creative collaborations. The questions have been excellent writing prompts, leading to essays that wrote themselves within a few hours of flow state (I really do need more questions, though! I want to hear from you!). I’ve enjoyed squirreling away links and works of art to share with you monthly (several of you have told me those have been your favorite missives; I guess I’m not alone in loving a link roundup). 

I am going to continue writing this newsletter for the foreseeable future. I love the conversations it sparks with people whose art I admire. I like the hygiene it creates in my creative practice. I like making art in public consistently. I love signal-boosting amazing art. I love supporting those who reject art’s cynical uses (for artwashing, for "a-political" arts organizations, to punch down). I want to continue experiencing gorgeous art, documenting it, practicing criticism, and sharing it widely. When I sit down with my art journal after coming home from a performance, it feels like an act of respect. I want to revere the work of art by diving deep, whether I liked the art or not. Brave and stalwart artists are making work up against fascism; I want to appropriately honor their work. 

Some pieces of writing I have up my sleeve for the near future: 

1. A follow-up to the I Will Always Love You letter “I Don’t Wanna Break Hearts (Like That).” While that essay was about the ethics of power sharing in the arts, I'm working on a sequel about how different systems of sharing power affect the aesthetics of art.

2. A collection of micro-reviews on art about whales. 

3. A behind-the-scenes view of a magazine article that’s going to be published soon. You’ll get to learn about the polycules of a century ago, the difficulties of reckoning with historic heroes, and the preciousness of multi-generational intellectual projects. 

4. More I Will Always Love You letters, more monthly round-ups. 

However, in my desire to avoid a punishing publishing schedule, I’m going to take two weeks off, rest, and refill my stockpile of writing. You’ll hear from me again on March 20th. 

In the meantime, I have a few humble requests of you:

First, I would love to hear any feedback you have on these last three months. Writing this can feel a bit like shouting into a void, and I always love getting email replies back. I’m curious what has resonated? What has this writing made you think of? Anything you think I should be reading/watching/seeing, given what you know of my interests so far?  

Second, I’m not joking that I need more I Will Always Love You letters! Send them my way! 

And third, for these first three months, I tried not to care about how many people read, but looking ahead, I want to share this work more widely. If I’ve written anything here that you think a friend would like, please send it their way. 

I am overwhelmed with gratitude for ever one of you who has read this work. Thanks for doing this with me, and looking forward to continuing.