Antidote for the Neurotic Left and the Neurotic Right

Life is more than that one thing...

I find at this current cultural moment, a sort of frenetic and neurotic hysteria to identify with the right group, to say the right buzz words, to condemn the right things, to signal the right virtues. And it’s equally prevalent on both sides of the political spectrum—from the bluest-haired, wildest-eyed, septum-pierced feminist to the bushiest-bearded, cigar-smoking, “biblical patriarchy”-affirming (whatever that’s supposed to mean) theobro. It’s incredibly exhausting to observe and experience.

They get up every day and drip, drip, drip away on social media like Chinese water torture with their favorite words and concepts (“misogyny, reproductive rights!” the post war consensus is why everything is terrible!), their favorite castigations (degenerate slut! misogynist!), their favorite ways to mock what they find abhorrent until it’s just so utterly predictable it’s boring. And none of them, on either side, provoke in me, by their words or actions, a longing for anything they might have.

Once upon a time, I wrote a novel called The Pursuit of Elizabeth Millhouse, about a young woman who found her way back to God. I had just come out of a long, dark tunnel of doubt concerning my own faith when I finished it. Ironic. Anyway, the publishing experience was dismal, to put it mildly. I made inquiries with agents, got one, and for all my expense and trouble, he only managed to get me a self-publishing/traditional publishing hybrid where I paid the publishing company to print the book while they provided the path to distribution with all the major book distributors. Several years after publication, I realized that my book had fallen out of print and the publishers never told me. It’s still out of print. However, it is available as a gift to my paid subscribers via audio recording right here on Substack:

That publishing experience put quite a damper on any future writing plans I had…well, that in addition to my struggle with Lyme disease. I had started another novel shortly after finishing my first—a dystopic science fiction story about where the Progressive/Marxist utopia idea might lead if followed to its logical absurdity—but I laid it aside. This was disappointing to my husband because he was hooked on the first few chapters and really wanted to see how it ended. But I had no heart for it between my discouragement and my physical symptoms. Over the years, my health improved quite a bit, my brain felt less fuzzy over all, and suddenly my creative streak re-emerged.

Covid hit. I was stunned by the reaction to it in real time, reactions of the citizenry and the government. I was amazed to watch people, in a matter of a few days, hand over their freedoms for the promise of safety and turn on anyone who wouldn’t go along with the plan. It was oddly horrifying and mesmerizing all at once. I realized I had to finish my second novel. So I did. It’s called 27, and you can read the first chapter below:

I began trying to build an email list through a now defunct platform called “Get Revue,” run by Twitter. That went away as soon as Elon Musk bought the platform, so I imported my list here to Substack and continued the process.

You see, I am a nobody and publishers are rather risk averse. During the publishing process of my first novel, I was turned down by several publishers, not because my writing stunk but because I didn’t have a following. I built one on Facebook, but then Facebook turned into a dead end with an algorithm that refused to show my followers what I was telling them unless I paid money for ads. I knew that an email list was where it was at. A capricious algorithm couldn’t manipulate a hard copy of email addresses. So that’s what I did next, starting all over from scratch.

I’m extremely grateful to have the option of using Substack for this. It is, bar none, the best social media platform out there for my purposes. I’ve been plugging away at it for two years now, writing once a week. The growth has been slow, for I am not a glittery sort of person. Recently, I began posting notes on the Substack app, and was shocked to find myself inundated with new subscribers. If some of those new subscribers have their eyeballs on this page right now, then welcome! And consider all the above as a short introduction to me and what I’m doing here.

Now, I have been advised by many well-meaning people to turn my social media presence into a theme and variations on the same basic topic. To be successful, I must become a Johnny One-Note and sing the same song over and over and over again in different keys. And once the book is published, I’m told, this is what will ensure my book sells. This is what will bring me my target audience. I’m sure this is a good strategy that has worked well for many people. I’ve even tried to do it. But I stink at it.

I can’t turn this weekly letter into an indictment of feminism, even though my novel is actually an indictment of feminism. I can’t rail against progressive/marxist ideology even though I attempted to show the horror of where it could lead, given the upper hand. I can’t only talk about politics or the evils of today’s society. I’ve already poured out my heart and soul into my book. I’ve spoken my peace there. I’ve diagnosed society between its covers and even shown a way forward in hope to the best of my human ability.

And though I will, do, and have written about those things, I can’t only write about those things here just to ensure future sales. Because that would take away the joy of sharing the things I find most meaningful about life—the things that are full of hope and light and beauty and goodness.

And if I did that, I know I would become the kind of person I don’t want to be. The sort I see everywhere on X right now, and to a much lesser extent, here on Substack. People like this:

Charming.

I find at this current cultural moment, a sort of frenetic and neurotic hysteria to identify with the right group, to say the right buzz words, to condemn the right things, to signal the right virtues. And it’s equally prevalent on both sides of the political spectrum—from the bluest-haired, wildest-eyed, septum-pierced feminist to the bushiest-bearded, cigar-smoking, “biblical patriarchy”-affirming (whatever that’s supposed to mean) theobro. It’s incredibly exhausting to observe and experience.

They get up every day and drip, drip, drip away on social media like Chinese water torture with their favorite words and concepts (misogyny, reproductive rights!, the post war consensus), their favorite castigations (degenerate slut! misogynist!), their favorite ways to mock what they find abhorrent until it’s just so utterly predictable it’s boring. And none of them, on either side, provoke in me, by their words or actions, a longing for anything they might have.

Life is more than one thing. Life is more than the problems and evils within it.

My life is more than one theme. My life is beautiful, and I want to share all of that beauty with you! I want to show you my flowers in the summer, the precious nieces and nephews yet to be born and held, my sweet dogs, my kind husband, the clothes and food I love to make with my own hands.

I want to write about all these things, too.

So, for you ladies who joined my reader list in the last month because you saw a picture of the dress I sewed, or the doilies I tatted, or the pie I baked…be it known, I will soon be sprinkling my Substack with tales of all these things.

And all of these things will be interspersed with the harder, more difficult and serious pieces.

Because, after all, isn’t that real life?

That’s all for now. Until next time, folks…

P.S. If you enjoy reading my weekly missive, please consider upgrading from a free subscriber to paid. This would help me be less poor, and being less poor would help me work harder than ever to get my two novels, The Pursuit of Elizabeth Millhouse and 27, published. Thanks for thinking about it. Have a wonderful week!