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10.27.2022
Hi!
It's Lydia. If you're receiving this email, that means you, at some point in time, signed up for my newsletter. You may have signed up recently, in which case you were expecting to receive this. Or you signed up around this time last year when I first launched the newsletter with high hopes and little follow-through (sorry I went rogue; grad school was a doozy). If you are in the latter group, you may have forgotten who I am and that this newsletter ever existed (which is totally fine, of course). If you don't care to hear from me, please, please unsubscribe because there's nothing that makes me cringe more than the idea that I am bothering and/or inconveniencing people. Also, I want this newsletter to go to only people who are pumped to be receiving it. As you guys know, I believe community is everything. Step one of fostering a community: make sure everyone who is here actually wants to be here.
This leads me to my big main announcement: I have decided to start self-publishing my writing (you can access it here. Yes, it's behind a paywall—I will explain that momentarily).
Self-publishing has been something I have been thinking about doing for a while now—the entire past year, really. I held off because I was giving the literary magazine route a go. I have received many, many rejections from journals/magazines and have decided to take matters into my own hands. Literary journals are notoriously challenging places for publication. A small percentage of submitted work (I think I read once less than 1%?!) gets published. I recently came to the conclusion that I need to stop putting my fate and visibility as a writer into the hands of such a fickle process. I do hope to one day to be published by legit and respected publications (Paris Review, Ploughshares, New Yorker, etc.) because, of course, I am a slut for external validation, specifically from entities deemed prestigious. Right now, I feel like I am in this spot where it's time to share what I have written on my own terms.
This leads me to one tidbit of advice I want to share: if you are going after something, if you have a big dream, aspiration, goal, or version of life that you want, then you cannot wait for someone to find you and bring you there. No one is going to "discover" you and suddenly make it all happen for you. For a while, especially in my early 20s when I was living in LA and trying to be a comedy TV writer, I (very narcissistically) thought someone was going to "discover" me and would take my hand and lead me to the top. This obviously never happened. I only started to experience success in my writing and comedy once I realized it was on me to make things happen for me. That's when I started grinding—going every day to open mics, writing all the time, sharing whenever I could, driving all over LA from one show/performance to the next—and then it finally felt like the opportunities were coming my way.
That's how I feel about my choice of self-publishing. I have the ability to share my writing with an audience, so why not do it? Put it out there, people can decide if they like it or not, and I will take it from there. ALSO: that's one thing I'm psyched about—self-publishing on my own website allows for me to have my own comment section and actually engage with you guys, the readers. I really am so curious about your thoughts, impressions, and feelings you're left with after reading the first short story I have shared, Dog Dads. (I plan on publishing new fiction once a month btw). Obviously, comments like, "I hated this," will be a bit of a bummer to read. I am not anti-criticism, though. So, please, criticize away if you are compelled to do so. I feel like my skin is pretty thick after my experience in workshop in my MFA. No one was safe in workshop. LOL.
I am, of course, also very open to comments other than critique. Compliments are welcome! As I said, I am a slut for external validation! I need it! I crave it! I'm in therapy!
Okay, now let me explain the paywall. A few reasons. The most important one is that I am trying to cultivate a community around that which I am most passionate about: writing. As a veteran of the internet, specifically TikTok, I have seen how quickly things can go rotten if my content lands in the hands of people who aren't part of the community. Some people are just fowl to be fowl. My paywall is a way of warding them off and keeping a relatively safe space for me to share my work. The second reason: I spent a great deal of time and energy writing the short stories and essays that I am now sharing. I think I owe it to myself as a writer to value my work and not simply give it away online for free. Third, I still am continuing to submit to literary journals, and I am not exactly sure what the rules are, but I don't think they will accept work that is already publicly available on the internet. So putting it behind a paywall creates some privacy. However, if you want to read my work but can't afford the cost ($3 monthly subscription), please email me directly, and we will find a way to work around it.
I imagine you have a general idea of who I am if you signed up to receive this newsletter, but if you don't: my name's Lydia. I am a writer, content creator, sensitive girlie, recreational runner, etc. (if you really want the whole scoop, go to my bio).
If you've been following along, then you know I spent the past year at Boston University getting my MFA in creative writing. I have, by the way, received some questions about MFA’s in general (are they worth it? Where to apply? Best practices in applying etc etc.) While I can only speak from my own very limited experience, I am happy to share my insights, so please let me know if you'd like me to write a post about my experience with my MFA.
I am currently working on my first novel. Without giving too much away (because I do think that you can talk a creative idea to death), I made a little mood board for the novel so you can get a general gist about what it's about. Speaking of mood boards--turns out I fucking love making them. And get sort of obsessive. So I made an entirely unrelated mood board that I posted on my website and will regularly update pending the current vibes.
My new website also includes:
My current playlist with autumnal bops
All things fruit gang (events and clothing drops)
A running journal
Most importantly: my writing
I am so excited about this new and improved launch of my website and, more specifically, sharing my writing with you guys. Honestly, I am getting pretty sick of TikTok and Instagram. I’ll keep posting, but the forever-changing algorithms is exhausting and I feel like I am not reaching my original homies online. I love the community of fruit gang and want a way to engage with you guys on my own terms.
I’ve included excerpts of the two pieces that you will be able to read in full once you subscribe. One is a fictional short story, Dog Dads. It’s one of my favorite stories I’ve written. The other one is a nonfiction essay, The Finca. Comment sections are at the bottom of both.
Oh, by the way, if you feel so inclined, comment your fall running songs in the comment section here! I'm in need of some new joggy jog tunes.
Love,
Lydia
Excerpt from Dog Dads
I step out from the changing room, sagging in olive satin. “It’s way too big,” I say.
“Way too big,” Sylvester agrees. His eyes travel up and down the dress.
“I lost weight.”
“Did you?”
“Almost twenty-three pounds.”
He raises his eyebrows and says, “Good for you. I’ve been trying to lose the same twenty for the past twenty years.”
He chuckles, so I laugh too.
“Ever try Weight Watchers?” he asks. “My wife had me on it for a while, but I was starving the whole time. Total rip off.”
“I think my hormones just changed,” I lie. “A second puberty, I guess.”
“Huh,” he says, bending over to adjust the position of the wooden step stool. “Never heard of a second one.” He scoots the stool in front of the mirror and motions for me to stand on it. “Here, sweetheart. I’ll get my pins.” He disappears into a sea of acrylic prom dresses and houndstooth suits.
I wait for him, silently scanning the space. I love Sylvester’s store—its stillness, the creaking of the cherry oak floorboards, the smell of cigarettes. The door to his shop is painted red with a small sign that reads, Sylvester the Tailor in metallic gold that winks in the sunlight on cloudless days.
“Alright,” he says, reemerging. “Let’s see what we can do.” He heaves towards me, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, carrying needles and chalk in his calloused, swollen hands. Sylvester is a mouth breather. Sometimes it sounds like there's a little whistle hidden in the back of his throat. He pinches some fabric at my waist from behind and then looks at me in the mirror.
“What do we think?” he asks. “If we bring this in here, then it flares nicely. Do you see that?”
“I like that.”
He nods and pushes a needle into the satin. Then another on the opposite side.
“It’s for my sister’s wedding,” I say. “I’m a bridesmaid.”
“When’s the big day?” he asks with pins in his mouth.
“December fourteenth.”
“A winter wedding. Not many people do those.”
“She loves Christmas.”
“Who doesn’t.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I find it stressful. All that commotion for just one day.”
Sylvester gets on his knees slowly and methodically.
“You’re like my wife.” He smiles. “She hates the holidays.” He folds a half an inch of hem at my shins. “And we can bring this up to here?”
I look at the bottom of the dress in the mirror. My legs—prickly with week old stubble—are the only redeeming part of my body, and I make a point of showing them off. I have a disproportionately wide and flabby stomach compared to my slender limbs. A boy in high school once referred to my body type as: a marshmallow on two toothpicks.
“Maybe one more inch?” I say.
He folds in more fabric, so the hem now falls just below my knees.
“There?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Perfect.”
He marks the spot with white chalk.
“My sister and I, we don’t get along,” I say.
“No?”
“No.”
“Family’s tough,” he says.
When Sylvester stands up, his face is so red, it’s a little bit purple. Blood vessels explode like fractals across his cheeks.
Excerpt from The Finca
I slept alone in a two-story structure located on the perimeter of the farm, farthest from the entrance to the property. The dwelling was made entirely of cement and had large cutout holes for windows. Noelle, the farm manager, led me down the dirt path and told me it was where I would be living for the summer. On the first floor, there were unopened tubs of paint, a wheelbarrow, a few rogue concrete blocks. My first thought was that it looked like an unfinished project—one that started with energy and optimism but later became exhausting and complicated. I was familiar with these sorts of endeavors. Noelle told me that usually there were other interns, but since it was just me for now, I had the place to myself. “Thanks,” I said, smiling, even though the thought of sleeping alone there at night made my stomach flutter.
It was a late June afternoon and had been a long day of travel—Boston Logan to Puerto Plata, Puerto Plata to Cabarete, Cabarete to Los Brazos. Noelle told me that my first day of work on the farm—the finca—would start the following morning and instructed me to get up no later than five thirty. “It gets too hot,” she told me, “to work under the sun after ten. So, you have to start early.” I nodded, and she said I could walk around and explore for the rest of the afternoon if I wanted. “There’s a general store up the road,” she said, “and a gas station if you keep going.” The farm was located in the north of the Dominican Republic, in a small, rural town called Los Brazos. My plan was to be there for the entire summer. My official title: the Sustainable Agriculture Intern.
I brought my carry-on sized luggage inside the structure. I was supposed to be there for a little over two months, but I’d packed lightly—only three pairs of shorts, three shirts, seven pairs of underwear, and two bikinis. I was trying out minimalism. It was an alluring trend. I’d quickly discover that wearing soiled clothes multiple days in a row didn’t quite liberate me in the way I thought it would.