Changes

An end to paid newsletter subscriptions and the start of something new

Last week I stayed in a house in a posh part of Liverpool, watching a couple of dogs, one of whom is disabled. He’s an underweight little dachshund named Bruce who has trouble digesting his food, so after giving him his twice-daily meds I wrapped him up in a blanket like a sausage burrito, or an infant child, and held him upright for half an hour so gravity could help move things along. Even with this intervention, however, he still threw up a lot.

For months I had really, really wanted to cancel this particular job, since I’ve learned that staying in other people’s houses makes me feel weird and unstable and cranky, but it was booked a long time ago and I’ve watched these guys before; I knew that their parents wouldn’t be able to find another sitter comfortable with all of Bruce’s needs, even with a lot of advanced notice. So I told myself this would be the last and final time: my swan song as a 32-year-old petsitter.

digesting hour

I’d decided I could afford to stop relying on this kind of gig work because, after a lot of trial and error and pain and heartache and chasing up months-overdue invoices, my freelance writing career finally felt (somewhat) stable and sustainable this summer. I had my first print byline for New York Magazine, a profile of the lovely and talented Saoirse-Monica Jackson, and for New York online I’ve also written about cheating (again) as well as mom feelings inspired by Charli XCX. I’ve got multiple future assignments lined up with other outlets that I know won’t ghost me or pay me late. I don’t feel total panic and dread over the state of my finances for the first time in a long, long time. I won’t have to watch other people’s dogs anymore!!! Lynette and I would love to get a second of our own, a pal for Gus.

It makes a kind of cosmic sense, I think, that as soon as I’d finally gotten into a good groove with freelancing, the perfect full-time job opportunity would finally materialize in front of me.

That’s right, I’ve buried the lede: as you may have seen if you follow me on socials, your girl is officially employed. I started my new gig this week. I’ll mostly be editing with a bit of writing for The Mill (Manchester) and The Post (Liverpool), two of Mill Media’s online newspapers devoted to American-style local longform journalism. After two long, looong years of freelancing, I can’t possibly express how excited I am.

Regular readers will recall that I was ready to quit journalism, for now if not for good, after struggling for many months to find full-time work in this broke and crumbling industry. Freelancing with some dog-sitting on the side was slowly killing me. Now, though, I’m so grateful I never got so much as an interview callback for all the many random non-writing jobs I’ve applied to over the last couple years. I feel like I’m finally exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I’m especially antsy to hit the ground running at work now that our area of the country has found itself at the center of national and international news. Late last month, three little girls were stabbed and killed in a horrific attack in Southport, just twenty miles north of Liverpool, setting off a wave of Islamophobic, anti-immigrant mis/disinformation about the attacker; racist pogroms in the following days set fire to cities across the northwest. Here in Liverpool, a food bank and a library burned. Last week, on Wednesday, more social media rumors identified dozens of targets for further right-wing violence, including offices and hotels serving asylum seekers, which mostly failed to materialize; instead, across the UK, tens of thousands of people showed up to protect their communities and condemn racist hatred. I wasn’t home, but Lynette could hear chanting from local residents protecting our neighborhood church.

Though it’s heartening to see cities quieting down and rebuilding after this terrifying spate of domestic terrorism, the effects of the riots will be felt for a long, long time, having exposed a deep and terrible rot at the heart of white Britain. My new employer, The Post, published this heartbreaking piece by David Lloyd about one Liverpool neighborhood reckoning with the aftermath. He reports that a girl who a shopkeeper captured on video looting his store pops back in after he’d reopened to buy a bottle of Lucozade and a packet of crisps, as if nothing had happened. How can that shopkeeper ever feel safe in his community again?

This summer I’ve thought a lot about Octavia Butler’s opening words from Parable of the Sower:

All that you touch,
You Change.

All that you Change
Changes you.

The only lasting truth
is Change.

God
is Change.

Published in 1993, the year after I was born, the plot of Parable of the Sower begins in the summer of 2024. It’s a little eerie how prescient this novel was, depicting a United States ravaged by political instability, wealth inequality caused by corporate greed, and the devastating effects of climate change.

Remember where the US was at, as a country, just a month ago? It’s pretty wild how different the future looks now, with Kamala/Walz giving us all hope that democracy might not be doomed after all (though I’m not nearly as hopeful they’ll stop the genocide in Gaza, claiming to want a ceasefire while Biden sends billions more dollars for kid-killing weapons to Israel). My own personal life has also transformed entirely in just a few short weeks. It still hasn’t fully hit me that I won’t have to worry to such a frightening, soul-killing level about money anymore.

When I told her I’d gotten hired, a dear friend congratulated me then sent a little reminder: my self-worth isn’t determined by my work, and I am so much more than this or any job. I burst out laughing. I knew exactly what she meant and appreciated it very much; I’ve been trying to tell myself this very thing for years. But I haven’t yet figured out how to feel good and at peace with myself when I’m not making a steady, reliable income. Knowing in the abstract you’re still a worthy, lovable person when you’re broke and letting people down is one thing; feeling it is another thing entirely.

Commuting to Manchester these past couple days has brought me back to life. Putting on my little outfits, catching up with the news on the train, walking through the beautiful city streets, meeting my new colleagues — it’s just been wonderful. Today I’m working out of a beautiful coworking space in Liverpool, right on the docks, overlooking the river. I love that I’ll be spending my time between the two cities. I love that I’ll be editing and writing longform. Annoying, stressful things are going to pop up, because jobs are work and working sucks, but of all the ways there are to make money in exchange for my precious time and labor, I think this is a pretty good one.

One of the best bits, I think, is getting excited about ideas again. Last night when Lynette and I were talking about local goings-on, I kept pausing our conversation to jot down pitches. I’m so looking forward to writing and editing stories about my new community here in the northwest, and thinking and writing a lot, lot less about myself.

One of my group chats recently shared this recent Alison Roman post from her newsletter that’s part carrot cake recipe, part existential crisis, and I was surprised to find how much I sympathized.

If it isn’t clear by now, I am terrified of internet culture and the control it has over people who’ve chosen a creative path in this life. I am genuinely concerned I do not have the stamina (or desire) to talk about myself or my work non-stop. If I stopped, would I still get to make things? We’ll probably never find out because too much of my self-worth depends on external validation, and if a tree falls, etc. But I’m working on that, slowly realizing that finally, maybe, I don’t have to do so much to feel good about what I’m already doing. There’s an “I couldn’t help but wonder” in here somewhere, but sorry, I’m too exhausted! 

I, too, am tired of thinking and talking about myself. I, too, resent how much creative types need to brand and promote themselves to survive off their art. And Alison Roman is a lot more successful than I am.

I’ve never been any good at pushing this newsletter to a wider audience, or committing to a a consistent schedule. But you’ve stuck around anyway. Every single person who’s supported this little personal project of mine, financially or otherwise, over the past couple years has been a lifeline. I can’t possibly express how grateful I am.

I would still very much like to write the occasional free post, but for now, I’ve indefinitely paused all newsletter payments, and I’ve started the process of sending out prorated refunds to annual subscribers. Going forward I’m going to be saving up most of my personal writing energies for my long-neglected memoir proposal.

I think Lynette had even more fun writing her portion of these posts than I am. Her last missive (for now) is below. Don’t worry, this isn’t the end of our creative collaborations; she and I are only just getting started.

Lynette’s comment corner

Hi folks.

Phew!

Well done.

She did it.

We did it.

The end.

Lol.

(I’m just overwhelmingly happy for us, tentative about the change in dynamics, but I’m packing a financial semi which is nice.)

Lol. There you have it, folks!!

I couldn’t be more excited or grateful to start this next chapter of our lives. I can only hope the best is yet to come.

With endless thanks and love,

xxSK