an unpolished encore
on the value of art, dismantling old cages, and creating reciprocal spaces
As I write this, I’m in a grueling grading moment with so many essays I have to finish before the midterm reports are due. I’m buried in a pile I cannot see my way out of yet. Grading student work while I’m also trying to maintain my own writing practice is a special kind of challenge. Words and words and so many words.
Sometimes when I’m grading a student draft, it’s obvious they don’t even know what they think about their topic. That’s why their words are so confusing and not delivering an argument to me as the reader; they don’t yet know what their point is, so of course I can’t understand it. Other times, I can see an argument emerge slowly as they write so that their first paragraphs are a mess, but finally at the end, I see a lighthouse of an assertion that answers the question. They wrote their way into an answer, which isn’t the point of polished academic writing, but I would argue that’s the point of writing itself– to sort it out in your head and your heart and give order to chaos. It’s what I do all the time on the page. Often it feels like a sculptor and a block of stone. I chisel away a bit at a time until what I really feel is revealed underneath.
Writing has saved me so many times. It is my beacon in the wilderness. I’ve been untangling chapters I wrote a few years ago, and I’m perpetually surprised by what I find. All writers know that experience of reading something and wondering where it came from. Did I write that? Did I know that? Writing reveals my undiluted voice, that piece inside of me that is somehow unviolated despite life’s disillusionment and disappointments. Sometimes I’m slayed by a line, not because I think it’s incredibly talented or perfect, but because it’s so true that it tells me the thing I know that I didn’t realize I knew. The art knows more than the artist every time. It’s a mysterious gift of writing and the reason I will write until I die, no matter who reads it.
Last weekend, before I moved on to student writing, I started my day rereading and revising something I worked on years ago, and I stumbled one of those lines that stopped me: “I still sleep confined to one side of the bed. Like a cage I built that has disappeared but I don’t know it yet. I stay small.” It made me pause with the sting of recognition— not only about a time in my life when I can see in hindsight I’d made a home in a cage that wasn’t even there anymore, but also because I still do the same thing. My perennial challenge in this lifetime is just dismantling cages I built for myself again and again.
I began this Substack almost a year ago, and I had no clue what I’d write about or how often. I’ve fallen into an every-other-week rhythm, and slowly my voice has re-emerged from wherever it hid in pandemic years. A decade ago, my audience grew larger as my voice grew louder when I was writing for large outlets like Huffington Post in the days of an open comment section. I grew a thick skin and learned how to, as Georgia O’Keefe said, “send flattery and criticism down the same drain,” but I grew tired of my words circulating to be read by tens of thousands of people without a penny for me. It began to feel like there was value in my words but I was giving them away to audiences who didn’t even fully understand or appreciate them. So I stopped. Then as the pandemic arrived and I came out on the other side of it nearing midlife, I molted a few layers and the focus of my writing changed as I began submitting work to smaller literary publications. I worked on my craft with workshops and residencies. I finally began to call myself a writer not because more people were reading my words (fewer people were) but because I had a steady practice and a devotion to language on the page, a determination to chisel the stone.
After three years of only submitting to literary journals, I decided to begin writing here as a commitment to myself and because I missed that feeling I had years ago of writing to a small room of people who are listening. My first post here felt a lot like stepping up to a microphone full of static, tap tap is this thing on? And over time, I just kept writing regardless of who was listening or how many. I’m so grateful for this space as a place to sort out the mess before the rough draft. I’ve taken bits and pieces of things that emerge here and threaded them through the manuscript I’m working on. I’ve connected with other writers and readers. I’ve re-established a commitment to myself remembering that what it means to be a writer is that I keep writing and I tell the truth, and when I feel it’s not the whole truth, I keep digging until I find it.
After some time and and deliberation, I’ve decided to begin a paid subscription model here to protect a few posts that illuminate vulnerable spaces and to grant myself the safe space to say things I’d otherwise not say. Some essays will still be available to everyone, but the paywall protected ones dig a little deeper or get more specific in ways I hesitate to excavate in an open space. A paid subscription model also serves as a commitment to myself that I will keep writing the truest things I know, keep carving, keep digging. It creates a place of trust for me to know I can say what I really want to say and that we are in this together. Looking back at my years of writing for huge media outlets where someone was getting financial reward from my words viewed by a wide audience but I didn’t get a dime, I’m so grateful for Substack as a place for writers to invest in their work and for readers to invest in the writers they value and believe in. Every time I get an acceptance for a residency or a workshop, I make it happen somehow, scraping pennies and picking up a little extra work if I need to. But it is such a beautiful reciprocation that I can use Substack as a place to invest time in my writing so that I can also invest subscriber contributions to further my craft.
I think one of the many cages artists build for themselves is the belief that the value of art is somehow entirely separate from monetary value. It is, of course. It is something deeper and more expansive. But the truth of it is that when you give your art away for free, your paid work gets the very best of you, and your art gets the crumbs. With over a decade of consistent writing behind me— far-reaching publications, workshops, residencies, and awards— that is still a cage I’m working to dismantle for myself and an old idea I’m trying to burn away.
I read so many Substack newsletters and only carry paid subscriptions for a few, so I know many of you will keep reading in the free space, and I’m eternally grateful for that, too. My subscriber list reaches 47 states and 19 countries, and it feels like such a treasure to know you’re listening. That you take your time to read my work when time is so valuable to all of us is often unbelievable to me. But a paid subscription is another way to lend your support for my work, and I’m grateful for that beyond what I can say. In the age of internet publications, writers grow used to their words being passed around without compensation. It may only be the price of a coffee once a month, but it’s more than that to me. Your support is something I could not have imagined years ago, and it is such an encouragement to me as I continue to work on my book and as I keep promises to myself to make time for writing among the million other demands in my life.
Last June, I saw Maggie Rogers in concert, and it was such a beautiful night. I’ve been a superfan of hers for years and finally got to see her live with friends I love and my daughter right next to me. It was in an amphitheater, and the energy felt expansive and free. As the show closed and we called her back for an encore, she told us that for the first time ever, she was learning other artists’ songs and performing covers for her audiences, a different cover for every city. But she explained that she was learning these songs on the road so they aren’t perfected yet. I’m paraphrasing here, but she said something like, “No shame to those of you who have to leave because I’ve been to many shows where I couldn't stay for an encore, but I’m going to wait a while for you guys to walk out so that those of you who stay are really in it. You’ll be the only ones in this vulnerable space with me. We’ll be in this together” We waited a bit for a few to leave, and then the space got quiet and felt a little smaller, even with the sprawling amphitheater and the stars overhead, and it was only her voice and a piano. She sang a cover of Bonnie Raitt’s heartbreak ballad “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” and it wasn’t perfect or smooth, but that’s exactly why it was incredible. A moment of raw courage different from her rehearsed songs she’d perfected on tour, a moment we shared together.
I guess what I’m saying is if you want to stick around for the encore, for those pieces that are more raw and a deeper truth, I’d love to have you in this space with me. Paid subscriptions will get full access to the archives and every post I write. As I round the corner of my first year here on Substack, my commitment to you is that I will aim for the truest true, and if you want to stick around for the encore posts, you will see the unpolished and the real, the gritty and fearless. I will keep digging, keep writing, and step up to the microphone to show you the imperfect. The highest reward of writing is what it reveals to the writer, but the second best reward is to know someone is reading.
**As a little bonus today, here’s that beautiful moment caught on film. Thank you for being in this space with me.