Ok fine, I’ll start a newsletter

I’ll open with a little blunt honesty: I rejected the idea of starting a newsletter for a long time.

I am a late adopter. Generally resistant to change. So in the early days of Substack, when writers were starting newsletters as a reaction to the ever-dwindling number of publications—the alt weeklies dying out first, then one beloved lit journal after another, and even online media giants like Gawker (twice now)—I hung back. It would be fine! There were still plenty of outlets left! Even when Twitter’s death spiral began and more and more writers launched newsletters so they’d still have a way to connect with their readers, I held out. I didn’t want to start over somewhere new after more than a decade building an audience on Twitter—I was pissed and in denial that one deluded, attention-hungry man-child could destroy a platform that was so integral to my career and, yes, to my daily life. I wasn’t about to let Elon chase me away that easily.

But recently, I had an idea for a column. The the last several times I’ve visited a museum, I’ve unintentionally started writing a craft essay in my head while walking through the galleries, the art sparking some new clarity about an element of writing that I’ve been wrestling with. I saw the development of an essay, from outline to detail, in a triptych at the Hopper exhibit at the Whitney; I saw the process of editing, honing and sharpening sentences, in a series of O’Keeffe watercolors at MoMA; and I saw my struggles to write about the people in my life realistically in an exhibit of Sargent portraits at the Met. These essay seeds started to pile up in a corner of my brain until it became clear that they were a series. But I couldn’t think of anywhere to pitch it. (Actually I did think of a couple, but they don’t exist anymore—a feeling very much like the intense craving I sometimes get for Yaffa Café’s sunshine burger.) And I realized that even if I could find an outlet that wanted this column, I’d have no way to spread the word about it now that Twitter is officially a Nazi chatroom.

And so… here I am. I’m late to the party, but I’m here.

Once I started talking myself into a newsletter as a venue for this art column (which I’m going to call Museum Pages—first installment coming soon), more ideas started to bubble up: I’ve never been quick enough to pitch book reviews—I get to books when I get to them, which is usually not right away—but I still find myself wanting to write them. Well, if I had my very own little publication, I could write all the untimely book reviews I wanted, couldn’t I? And the behind-the-scenes writing process stuff that I used to pour into Twitter threads and now just mutter about to myself. And author interviews that fewer and fewer outlets are publishing. And, and, and…

The title, The Word Cave, comes from the opening line of a Paul Celan poem: “Line the wordcaves/ with panther skins,”

My father made a series of woodcuts inspired by this line, and one of them hangs in my home office, which, on the best days—the days when I shut myself away and feel completely enveloped by writing—I think of as my word cave. (I’m guessing that if you’re here, you already know this, but just in case: My father’s art has always been one of my main sources of creative inspiration and direction. So much so that my first book, Negative Space, is as much a monograph of his work as it is a memoir.)

The idea of a word cave reminds me of the feeling of retreating into the work, going deep into the quiet, dark place in your mind where creativity comes from. And the imagery of lining the word cave reminds me of the tending and preparation necessary for such deep work. Going to a museum feels like lining the word cave, reading a good book feels like lining the word cave. All of the things that mentally and emotionally nourish so that we have a well to draw from when we sit down to write—that’s what I think of when I imagine lining the word cave. Lining with panther skins—deep and rich and dark, like lining a womb.

The name of this newsletter is an attempt to hold onto that feeling—to remind myself to let this project be driven by genuine inspiration, to spring from the word cave. Part of my hesitance to start a newsletter in the first place was the idea of one more thing on my to-do list, one more looming deadline. Instead, I’m going to try to let it be an answer to the question: What if rather than pre-rejecting ideas that excite me because I don’t know where to publish them… I just stayed in my word cave and wrote whatever I wanted to write, and put it somewhere where people could read it?

And that’s where you come in. If you’re receiving this email, you asked at some point to be kept informed about my books—Negative Space a few years ago, or more recently my forthcoming essay collection First Love—and/or my writing classes and editorial services. Updates on big book news (like tour dates when they’re available, and a publication day announcement) and quarterly class listings will now be part of this newsletter. If you want to receive one or both of those types of emails and nothing else, that is totally fine! I get it. We all get too much email. You can manage your subscription by clicking the “Unsubscribe” link at the bottom of this email (this will take you to a Substack page where you can toggle on and off which types of emails you’d like to receive).

If you’re interested in receiving occasional book updates and class listings plus Museum Pages, occasional What I’m Reading dispatches (sometimes these might be lists, sometimes they’ll be short review/essays), author interviews about writing and friendship, and whatever else develops once I get into the swing of newsletter life, stick around. If you received this email directly, you don’t need to change anything. If it was forwarded to you or you got here via a social media link, subscribe here:

And of course, any help in spreading the word about this brand new venture would be appreciated.