In Place of Posting, The Girls are Writing

Spanning the localities of my friendships, from coast to coast, school to school, group to group, is one uniting feature: Substack. A couple, if not all, of the girls—myself included—in these disparate friend groups have a profile on this online literary social network platform, driven through personal newsletters. Instead of consistently sharing on Instagram, we share our writing. Though I have not done thorough interviews, I gather that the feeling is mutual among other girls at my elite university. In place of posting, the girls are writing.

I’m interested in delving into a specific type of online writing: the girlhood essay. This form, written by those identifying as a ‘girl,’ is an amorphous collection of coming-of-age, bildungsroman, slightly naive, and perhaps frothy pieces. The writer is typically in her twenties, living in a big city, perhaps attending (or having attended) a school like mine. The content is varied, with some dedicated to poetry, many with critiques of our chronically online lives, and even more that discuss what a “cool girl” life is. Lists have become a staple addition as well: lists of resolutions, of ins and outs, of dreams, of clothing brands, of favorite things, of Halloween costumes, of cafes. I am one of them, writing about my romantic epiphanies and conclusions on the grievous existence of a young woman today. The constant stream of this content is self-selected, yet I grumble about my feed being oversaturated by girlish complaints. Why? Because, like everything else in this, overproduction is making for a lower quality product, a process that gets exacerbated by the ever-demanding online content cycle.

Let me be clear: I am not adding to the unfortunate choir of those who criticize the endless girlhood conversation on this site, slamming authors for harking on this over-written subject, when it is just the natural progression of their lives and identities to be questioning things like girlish love, belonging, desire, style, sex, etc. Let the women speak (thank you Eliza McLamb for her Substack essay bitingly titled “We’re All Whores Here”). This being said, there is something afoot in terms of the over-romanticization and commodification of this internet-ified girlhood. Unlike a Jane Austen novel, a Substack entry is relatively short and easy to produce. The depth and melodrama are performative and not always genuine. In other words, too often the Substacker girl writes to say she wrote, immortalizing in words the same curated lifelessness that glares at us from our Instagram.

To unpack this conflict of superficiality a bit more, I turn to a Substack legend, the original “internet princess”: Rayne Fisher-Quann. To my anecdotal knowledge, she was instrumental in constructing this prima donna writer archetype. For good reason, too. Her writing is long, smart, and pulls from sources that cite powerhouses like Susan Sontag, Joan Didion, Mary McCarthy, Simone Weil, Hannah Arendt, and Diane Arbus. While she doesn’t harp on girlhood, the genre grounds her whole publication—take the titular word “princess” as evidence. She takes the sentiment of essaying seriously: she balances opinions, deconstructs her perspective, and offers well-thought-out advice. Not to mention, she’s a fantastic writer. The last line in one of her most popular articles, “no good alone,” showcases this: “... it’s painful and exhausting and fundamentally terrifying to rip yourself open and leave the guts at the mercy of the people you choose to love. But if I know anything, I know this: It’s better than being alone.” Her powerful imagery makes her bleeding heart not exhausting, but authentically relatable in a deeply human way—not relatability for influencing purposes. She’s tortured, because we all are, and pumps meaning into that connection.

Moving now to the other end of the spectrum, we have the weightless girlhood Substack. I’m not going to cite the exact page I am pulling from, but if you look up “list of hated things” and click on a page that looks girly-poppish, you will find something similar. The post, written without proper punctuation, begins with a brief intro outlining how “boring” the utopian fantasy of things like “radical optimism” and “eternal sunshine” is. To give her page some spunk, she is countering a previous post dedicated to her “list of perfect things” with one of the things she hates. A few of the last items on the list are the following: “...how tiny bikinis these days are (someone please send me a cute suit i can wear in front of my family i’ve been scolded for this one); the idea of skiing; the wellness industrial complex (just sleep and eat a vegetable); the anxiety of being late; my lack of knowledge about wine…” Immediately, I need some explanation. The idea of skiing? The wellness industrial complex? We know what she’s referring to, but she doesn’t walk us through any analytical process of determining her abhorrence. There is a place for silly, goofy writing. Even Rayne posts holiday gift guides (though she unpacks the practice of gift-giving in the process). Performative angst is fun! But is it productive? Is it teaching us to really essay, not just jot down ideas?

I am not out to squash someone's hobby. Many don’t have the hours it takes to write a proper analytical essay. As Eliza McLamb points out, we all have to sell ourselves out as artists. What I am out to do, however, is to urge people towards more thoroughness. To turn the platform into a place for growth, not just surface-level commiseration. Girlies, ask yourselves: Why are you Substacking? For an image? For a creative outlet? Just to be a part of the crowd of knit-wearing, lip gloss-smacking, book-naming, twitchy writer girls? Though brutal, my conjuring of that image points to the ritualistic nature of the platform. No Substack? No sitting at the tortured literary girls' lunch table. I agonize over not posting enough on Substack, over not being popular because of my words. Like any form of social media, the platform is as much a burden as it is a form of expression. 

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Blogs are nothing new, but the blog as social media is. Platforms like Substack can be a way forward to more constructive and thoughtful media consumption, as long as we consciously steer away from the same over-aestheticized trend traps. Writing, to me at least, is sacred and, like any art form, takes time and dedication. Though I’m thrilled to see the girlies encouraging others to write more, let's make sure the writing we’re encouraging isn't sacrificing quality and/or only feeding the image. We all want to be an internet princess, but that title needs to be earned—and cherished.

Cover image via (ft. Carrie Bradshaw, the OG writer girlie)

A Love Letter to my Notes App and Bad Poetry II.

Hey again!

You probably didn’t think you’d hear from me so soon. However, in an unexpected turn of events, as it turns out, there’s more bad poetry to be shared.*Gasp* I know. But, since I did it once, I thought: why not continue this series with a little more of what’s been hiding in my notes app? Just as a disclaimer: thematically, this selection of poems may be slightly more depressing and of poorer quality than the last. Most, although also only written about a year ago, were conceived during what I like to refer to as my Lana sad girl era, and that was an interesting period to say the least. Despite that though, I hope you enjoy reading anyway. So without further ado, I present to you Bad Poetry Series II.

Ribbons

I liked to tie ribbons in my hair 

And sew them on my clothes.

I liked to use ribbons as necklaces

And decorative bows.

They always looked pretty.

And made me feel neat.

Until you took my ribbons.

You LIAR!

You CHEAT!

You took my ribbons and you stained them red.

You took my ribbons and tied my hands instead.

You took my ribbons and made them shackles for my feet.

You took my ribbons breaking me down with each beat.

My ribbons I never offered!

My ribbons I never shared!

Still, you took my ribbons. 

How little you cared?!

And the last of those untainted you kept,

refusing to let go.

You took my favorite things in the world and made them something [I] owed.

The Monster Underneath My Bed

The monster underneath my bed is a woman who's spent her whole existence begging to be loved by people who’d rather she be dead. She isn't demented, in fact, I fear she's sane. Especially when you account for the number of times she's been mercilessly degraded and ironically rendered “inhumane.” Yet, she’s by far the most humane monster I have ever met. Not that I’ve met many. Except I know that when it comes to fangs and beady eyes, she’s got too little to display any. Though, she does cry a lot. To be honest I think she may be a little depressed. But, I would be too if I was called a monster when I’m relatively monster-less.

Pretty.

Being told you are “pretty” for the first time is as though someone has seen something in you that you never thought attainable. It’s this magical moment where you can’t help but be still and bright-eyed.

How insignificant you are and yet the sun has chosen to make you its centerpiece.

Suddenly, somehow lots of somebodies start to see that something in you too. Centering you just as the sun did. 

You then hear that word “pretty” so often it begins to wither. Overused and oversaturated, it slowly loses its value to you.

“Pretty” it seems never meant you were the sun’s favorite.

Until once more you hear someone use it to describe you. The one you yourself have decidedly centered. “Pretty.” It slips from their lips like sunshine through the corner of your bedroom window. There it is. The glow comes back and once again it feels like it did the first time. Flutters and all.

How is it that all those somebodies seemingly shadow when compared to that [sun] one.

“Pretty” s[he] says.

Oh how lovely it sounds in that tone.

Pie to the face

I took a pie to the face the day I allowed your smile and corny banter to swoon me. Sway any negative opinions I’d had about— shit I forget— I guess I just like to think that there was something wrong to take note of the day that we met. But there simply wasn’t. Not then and not now. How pathetic of me to try to make you out to be less perfect than you are somehow. Instead, I should have the courage to stand and admit: “ I am an idiot for being infatuated with someone who just can’t commit.” Not to me. This I know. *Cue the laugh track* but hold off on the clown makeup— that’s as much pride as I’m willing to forgo. The truth is I still wonder what it might have been like if there were no feelings to resist. Urges to repel and deny every time I was situated in your midst. But alas it’s unattainable… all of it.. whatever I thought “it” could be. You are unattainable and that was clear at first but clearly not enough for me. So I’m taking a pie to face no protests or counteracts in place. A jester there to boo, chuck tomatoes at, and wholly debase.

Loss.

You would leave me if you could. You would. You just don’t know how.

Comfort.

My father hugs. Always with a pat on the back.

“It’s a comfort thing,” he says. 

It's the kind of comfort I hope to feel for a lifetime and several more afterward.

Part III? Actually, I’m not sure how much terrible writing I have left in the archives. However, considering how fun this was, I might just have to get back into it.

A Love Letter to Love Letters

My family impressed upon me the importance of letters. Once I could read, my grandparents would mail me cards for every holiday, writing updates on the weather in Wisconsin, what card games they had been playing, and how they looked forward to the next time we would see each other. I certainly took these for granted until I was well into my teens. I would oftentimes recruit the help of my mom to translate their loopy cursive handwriting, so she would read their messages aloud to me.

Every Christmas was also naturally full of letter writing and receiving. When I was still young, I would write a letter to Santa to list off what I wanted for Christmas. After Christmas had passed and my sisters and I returned home, my mom would sit us down and we would write thank-you notes to each person that gave us a gift. At the time, licking the envelopes, writing the address, and applying the stamps was mere drudgery.  

Image via Pinterest.

Once I was in middle school, I began collecting the numerous letters and notes I received every year. From the heartfelt holiday cards of my grandparents to funny letters from my friends on my birthday to notes with handmade drawings from my dad, it seemed unjust to throw them away. So, I stored them. As I aged, my shelf that contained the letters filled up, the envelopes sliding as the stacks of cards toppled over.

I caught on to the sentimentality of writing letters. For parents and friends, I began to make my own cards, drawing little images on the front, leading to a pun on the inside of the card. I became very partial to love letters, writing pages and pages for special occasions during my high school relationship. The giving and receiving of letters garnered a special place in my expression of care for those around me.

Image via Pinterest.

This year, I realized I had no pictures of friends or family as decorations in my room. Looking through my bedroom at home for pictures to take back to school, I stumbled upon my shelf of letters. This is better than pictures, I thought. I slid a thick stack of cards into my bag and brought them to school. Now spanning the wall in my room is an assortment of cards from various people in my life, addressing various occasions and milestones that I have experienced. The assortment of letters is expanding, growing in all directions as I still receive letters in the mail and the holidays go by every year.

A heartfelt letter is perhaps the greatest gift of all. No other gift will be as unique to you and the person giving or receiving the letter. Having the handwriting of a loved one is having a piece of them, their voice, their personality. With Valentine’s Day coming up, I encourage you to write an old-fashioned, hand-written letter for a loved one, friends, or family. Not only will it let them know how you care about them, but it may inspire them to do the same.

Image via Pinterest.

P.S., save the postal service!

Featured image via author.

Poetry for Peace in a Pandemic

There’s plenty of feeling that 2020 was a time for lost hope. While it’s true most people are undergoing very difficult circumstances, one thing UChicago has taught me is that self care and radical self love are fully necessary in the most difficult of times. Poetry is especially good for peace of mind. And writing is unquestionably calming. So let’s see how to bring a bit of peace into your daily life.

Image via Elliot Duprey

What is poetry even? Megan Thee Stallion has a breathtaking answer: Educational equity, feminist sex, and calling out the haters are all an everyday purpose for the hotshot. I listen to her during high energy unapologetic hours. Each time, she transcends musical norms and tropes with clarity and purpose, fiery passion fuelling her lyrics. She’s been able to ride the waves of fame with her larger than life personality and determination. UChicago lucked out by booking her before Hot Girl Summer was released, and now campus is forever blessed by seeing her in person last winter. She brought more color and better twerking to Reynolds Club than anytime else in its history, as demonstrated by its gallery of old white male presidents. 

Louise Gluck is blinding on exposure. One of my personal thought leaders (sounds religious even though it’s not? eh good poetry is that level) and greatest American poets alive, Gluck has achieved fame, respect, and distinction because of her cutting and clear voice. Her poems seem like they are separate from modern problems and outside of time and space as one critic put it, but of course the language is a curtain hiding her profundity. Gluck is accurate, in my head appearing as a longbow archer clad in white, using the tools she has to always nail the heart and essence of things. She unlocks part of your understanding of yourself, of your world, and of the order of society. It answers deep questions like poetry can. 

Ocean Vuong is my superstar. He came from humble writing beginnings but now is the most fearless, most genuine, and most sensitive person who brings his full feminine and Vietnamese self into his work. One of the defining poets in coming out of the rich Asian American diasporas, we have only his authenticity, intelligence, wit, talent, and persistence to thank for the luminous, enthralling masterpieces and kind mentorship he extends to a nation. The quality of his work is certainly the best you see around. I read Ocean Vuong for beauty, for inspiration, for a gentle hand to lead me into a home, a war, an education, a life of failure and extreme success. If there was one person I would have people read in a period of heightened racism against Asian Americans, it would be Ocean Vuong. At a school that worships the written word, Ocean creates our gospel.  

Suggestions: Trevor, Aubade of Burning City

At an open event with the School of the Art institute of Chicago in October Vuong was at his kindest and most introspective. Write, he told us, most of whom were under difficult circumstances. I took away one lesson. Write for happiness, for joy, for your best selves, for creation, for radical self care, for stoppering the dark spiral, to let things go, to push your comfort further, and pursue your happiness. Write to care for others and yourself. Write because you need every advantage to thrive. Writing is like breathing, to amend Scout Finch. In a year where it’s been extraordinarily hard to breathe well for multiple reasons, it’s best to take as many deep breaths as you can.

Featured image via Andrew Chang