An End-of-year Detour

Anxiety, books in translation, and my favorite Substacks

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Warning: This post is 1,700 words. If you feel like skipping over my babble about anxiety, just scroll down to the bold heading that says “And so, I heartily recommend” for a partial list of some great Substacks.

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I’ve been pretty anxious lately, but I’m going to therapy again, doing my best to do the things that help, trying to shift my locus of control from external to internal. Turns out I not only have a fierce inner critic but a whole jury of critics. There are approximately twelve of them, all in archetypal outfits and uniforms—a doctor in scrubs, an army general, a priest, all my family members, my fifth-grade teacher, a cranky old literary critic gnawing on his pipe, a far-left activist, a far-right activist, a perfectly rational Sam Harris type, a lawyer in a suit, a professor of littérature who has large chunks of Shakespeare memorized, a whole slew of undergrads (the scariest of them all), a personal trainer who constantly slaps my love handles, my grandmother who insists I’m heading straight to hell, and many, many others. (I guess there’s more than twelve.) Oh, and I’m naked on a surgical table as they stare down at me.

Whew. Welcome to my brain. Ha ha, sorry, [insert therapist’s name].

What does this have to do with books? Well, I don’t know, except that, in order to enjoy or closely read any of the books I usually talk about on book(ish)—literary fiction, mostly—I need to be in a place of relative calm. And how do we get to that place? Practice. And who has time to practice getting their minds prepared to read littérature? Those with leisure time. And who has leisure time? The privileged! This is inherent in any art-consuming— time and energy to sit still and calm the fuck down and drink in someone else’s daydream. No wonder so many writers have intense exercise routines. Haruki Murakami, Lauren Groff, Joyce Carol Oates, Malcolm Gladwell, and Matt Bell with their running; Oliver Sacks and Vonnegut with their swimming; Stuart Dybek and Laura van den Berg with their boxing. Old mentors of mine, Bonnie Jo Campbell and Mike Magnuson, were both avid cyclists. I’m sure there are many others—fencers and unicyclists and contortionists, oh my.

But this is not a treatise on privilege or the foolish time-frittering of middle-class yo-yos, but just, you know, some scattered thoughts. And also to say: My reading life has been pretty chaotic lately. I don’t know why I do it, but every year I get anxious around Thanksgiving (family dynamics scare me) and furiously try to read as many books as possible (usually short ones so as to hike up my total number of books read) and as many in translation as possible, because it’s good to take in the grander view. This practice usually comforts, but this year it is making me all the more anxious. I read Breasts and Eggs and got bored and put that down. (A lot of people liked it so don’t let that deter you.) I started T Singer by Dag Solstad and loved it and then suddenly felt very anxious by the crammed, run-on, sometimes page-long sentences. I had the same problem with Jon Fosse. Absolutely loved it until I couldn’t handle it, but I’m determined to try again when I’m hopefully on a beach somewhere. So, now I’m tooling through Etgar Keret’s The Girl on the Fridge, kooky little surreal side-splitters which is the exact dark fun I need but then, the next story baffles me and I can’t make sense of it, so I put that down, too. I try Yuri Herrera’s Ten Planets, because, well, it’s Yuri freaking Herrera, and for some reason that doesn’t hit, either. I pick up Tove Janssen before bed, because she is so wise and life-affirming, and I fall asleep. I try audio, Mariana Enriquez, Osamu Dazai, and Yoko Tawada, and I love them but cannot feel my feelings.

What are we to do? Probably go for a run. Or a swim. Or a hike. Or maybe try boxing. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll watch some TV to round out the year. Maybe, like the character in Etgar Keret’s “World Champion,” I’ll find a gold-plated navel cleaner and give that a spin.

To that end, when I can’t calm down enough to read for stretches of time, or when I can’t slow down enough for a slow consideration of something I read long ago, or when the dogs in the neighborhood of my mind simply won’t stop barking, there’s always Substack. Little hits of glory. Everyone’s puggle has a Substack these days, so it can be overwhelming to try to decide what to subscribe to, and which email to open —we have far too many inputs for our nervous systems already—but here are a few I’ve enjoyed this year. These always make me feel better, more grounded, more aware and open and thoughtful.

And so, I heartily recommend…

Hey Pop is a “new project about the intersection of family life, work, and creativity” by Dan Stone, head of music and culture at Substack. Lucinda Williams, Tobias Wolff, Ted Goioa, stories of guns at the dog park, the moment when art changed you, and hanging out with Flannery O’Connor. This nourishes me.

Deeper Into Movies by Celia Mattison is simply one of the funnest Substacks I subscribe to. She is off the cuff, engaging, and cuts straight to the point with her unfiltered takes on movies. It’s like talking to a smartypants/funny friend at the bar after going to the movies. If I weren’t so obsessed with music and books, I’d watch more movies. Until then, Celia helps me curate my watch list. She gives updates on her other writing, too, which is super smart.

Garth Greenwell’s To a Greener Thought is so enlightening. When people refer to Substack as a blog, I kind of shrivel. Greenwell is case in point that full-blown master classes on the essay are unfolding in real time right here on Substack. Damn the “keep it short” dictums and the reader engagement blah blah blah “you can’t do this on the internet” and “readers don’t have that kind of attention span” bullshit. Greenwell writes lengthy close readings on music, art, and books worthy of publication in the London/New York Review of Books. If you like his novels (they’re gorgeous), you’ll dig this. I’m always gasping, not only at his sentences, but at his ability to illuminate something mysterious or enigmatic or too complex for my pea brain. A friend once put me in touch with Greenwell to get a reading list of great sex scenes, because I was going to teach a class on altered states in fiction (which never ran because it didn’t fill, ha ha). He was so open and generous.

Nicole Costello’s “This Book Changed My Life” might be book(ish)’s long lost cousin. A South African living in the UK, she features a lot of UK authors, feminist lit, and books in translation, which is what everyone needs. We’ve written about a few of the same books, so it’s always fun to get her take.

Kaitlyn Greenidge’s “cultural criticism at the intersection of pop culture, the archives and Black womanhood” often shakes me. “Pay attention!” Her posts have been quiet for a while, but I hope she returns. Maybe if a few of you subscribe she’ll get the message? Her first novel is gorgeous, and I’m eager to read her second.

Catherine Lacey has been doing these Amy Hempel/Lydia Davis-style stories and essays in 144 words and I just love them. You read Biography of X, right? Right?!

Leaflet! Caleb Crain became a birder during the pandemic and, let me tell you, as I inch closer to forty, his photographs of birds (mostly in Prospect Park) are just riveting. He also writes about CrossFit, the lost art of making wheels and wagons, and shares whenever his writing appears in fancy mags. There’s something so comforting about this newsletter.

Peter Bromka writes accurate, philosophical, passionate, and passionately-conflicted essays on long-distance running. I really hope he collects them into a book. (Peter, if you’re out there, let’s talk!) Runners would eat it up. Or, drink it up? (Electrolytes!) If you’re an endurance freak, you need to read his writing. He’s not afraid to question some of our baseline assumptions about why we do what we do. His essay “The Endurance Dad Dilemma” just walloped me.

Brandon Taylor’s Sweater Weather: If you were to tell my sixteen-year-old, punk-obsessed self that, one day, I would gleefully be reading about a young novelist’s musings on Edith Wharton or about how London is “oppressively heterosexual,” I would’ve stared at you blankly for about 37 minutes. Lucky for me, people change, and I’ve come to relish hot takes on Edith Wharton. Taylor’s novel Real Life was fantastic, and his newsletter is extremely charming. Another great peak behind the curtain of the writing life with some gorgeous close readings.

Starship Casual. Calling all Wilco Freaks.

Lincoln Michel’s Counter Craft demystifies fiction writing, publishing, and comes with a slew of wise breakdowns at the intersection of literary and Sci-fi/Fantasy. His newsletter “The Clarifying Cut” was immensely helpful to me and gave me a kick in the rear right as I was about to embarrass myself by shopping around a too-long short story. I read his essay—essay!—went for a run, came back, and lopped 3,500 words off my 7,000-word story, then proceeded to feel very proud of myself as I sent it to all the fancy lit mags. I’ll be famous any day now, and I’ll have Lincoln to thank.

Ted Gioia, foremost jazz and cultural critic, writes so much, and I can never keep up with his busy mind, but when I do have time, I’m always delighted by reports of sea shanty revival music or marginalized venues of art.

There are many more. How do you take it all in? Well, you don’t. You do your best, sniff out the joy, take in what you can, leave the rest.

Please tell me: what Substacks have you enjoyed this year?

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Austin, TX, back in June. When in doubt, go outside.