yahta yahta yahta

+ a poem at the end

Stacks and Sauvignon by Leah Gardner (purchase print here)

Lately, I’ve been working on some longer fiction pieces and trying to think of Substack as a low stakes vehicle through which to hone my writing craft — both macro (plot-and-structure) and micro (sentence-level). Kind of like a self-designed MFA program, where I meet up with my writing group (hi Julianna and Emily and Macy!), take classes, consume literary fiction, and read/apply theory. That means, for the time being, I’m allowing myself to sit with and nitpick the writing until it feels ready to be born. Slowing down is luxurious. Hint: some of the stories I’m currently working on involve complex power dynamics, nanny secrets, James Joyce references, partying in FiDi of all places, commedia dell’arte, discovering that someone you’re seeing is also involved with someone else you know lol, being lost in your twenties (a club classic), and the visual art world, among other topics.

Anyways! This slower methodology is great except for when I get stuck in perfectionism loops and need to share work as a reminder that it’s really not always that deep. I mean, the genesis of this Substack was screenshots of my notes app stream-of-consciousness that I shared on Close Friends, for Christ’s sake. No need to pull a Donna Tartt and publish once a decade. (No disrespect, Donna!!)

As a child, I wrote constantly and un-self-consciously. I didn’t need to be bribed with an iPad on road trips, because my parents would just grab a cheap spiral notebook and one of these perfect pens¹ that my dad loves, and I’d be set for hours, externalizing my imagination onto the page. (When I wasn’t writing in the backseat to pass the time, I was pouring water into bottle caps, then slowly sipping it to pretend that I was a Victorian child taking medicine for my Victorian child illness. What a little freak.) 

holy grail of all annoying kids who got called “precocious”

Then in third grade, I picked out this exact Rhyming Dictionary² at the literary child mecca, the Scholastic Book Fair. I began writing SO MUCH POETRY. Was I concerned with form and structure? Not beyond an AA/BB rhyming scheme. During this time, I penned cult family classics like Renaissance (a poem about… the Renaissance) and The Sociopath Next Door (don’t worry, I’ve had plenty of time to process that one in adulthood). My dad is an author, among other things (a scholar, a Lutheran minister, a bit of an intellectual snob), and my mom has requested to have “She Read to Her Children” engraved on her tombstone. So, as you can see, I was primed from a young age towards amateur poetry. Because my parents are good parents, they loved the poems, despite their gross historical inaccuracies (Renaissance ≠ Middle Ages ≠ Tudor Era) and publicization of our legal troubles with our neighbor. 

My mom submitted my writing to poetry contests, where children competed for the $20 grand prize and read their poems to an auditorium of adults. Something that fed my compulsive need for attention and also paid cold hard cash — how could I chase this high 24/7, child labor laws notwithstanding? I all but crowned myself the Poet Laureate of Carl Schurz Elementary. The girls in my third grade class were pressured (by me) into spending Thursday recess at my “writing club,” named C.I.C.T.A.W.,³ where I ruled as a benevolent dictator for approximately three weeks. After that, everyone realized they could just collectively ignore my demands and play kickball or whatever. My power trip quickly subsided.

I’m lucky that my parents always took my hobbies and interests seriously. It led to me taking them seriously. But in the spirit of not taking them too seriously, I’m returning to my roots. Here’s an unserious little poem I wrote on the train — on the way to a different writing club hosted at a Burger King by Dream Baby Press — to pay my Substack tithings until the serious-serious writing is ready to be born :) 

when your date reminds you of your brother: a poem

I went on a date last night

And I ordered a spritz

In November

Because I’m in denial.

Afterwards

I text the friends

That I always text after a date.

“How did it go?”

He was lovely.

Conversation was fine.

But unfortunately 

He reminded me 

Of my brother.

“Maybe you need to give this okay guy a chance.”

“Maybe you need to go on 80 dates with him

And then you will slowly forget

The entire concept of what it’s like

To be attracted to someone.”

“Maybe you just need to go on one more date

And he will suddenly and magically not 

Remind you of your brother.”

You’re not hearing what I’m saying.

I don’t like him. 

And now 

All I can think about

Is that some of you

Would fuck your brothers.

Now, not all of you have brothers

So that I can understand.

But some of you 

Do have brothers

And that I will not be forgetting.

1. Even if your handwriting is atrocious, these gel pens will make it look glamorous, I promise.

2. Sidenote: this is still an incredible gift for any kids in your life.

3. The “Creative And Inspirational Club for Talented Amateur Writers.” Not kidding, unfortunately.