All of February and some of March:

and…

but most importantly…

*sobs*

I just want to be an artist. God, I could use this brain if someone would give me a chance. At four dollars a word, preferably. It’s not a coincidence that every artistic industry is simultaneously failing to do the namesake of its prefix: art. When did this all happen? One day, we were all trucking along, maybe not making the most money, maybe not snagging every job or project we wanted, but we were going, moving, coasting along a highway of ‘I’ll get the next one.’”

Then there was just less. And after that, nothing. Now? It’s like wading through scorched earth, foraging for fragments of something that used to be. And that’s just…so fucking sad!

Maybe it wouldn’t be so if art wasn’t what we most fiercely cling to. When you get a flash of something real good like an ascending chord progression, or a perfect couple of lines in a movie—it’s ambrosia to the senses; an uninhibited thrill to consume something that was made well.

Last weekend I saw Holland Andrews in a brief concert with Alexis. One thing that never fails to bring me joy is watching someone else do what they love. It’s an extraordinary sight, actually. Like seeing a color you can’t put a name to, shine in their bodies from the inside out. What a blessing it was to bear witness to it on a random Saturday night. How lucky we felt watching them on stage bask in their love of music and sound.

On the walk to the bar after the performance, one thought lingered on our minds like halos: We want to do that. Not sing or play an instrument like Andrews did (because one couldn’t possibly get close to that level of talent anyway) but create. Do. Make. Alexis and I talked about this at length over cocktails. Her’s gin, mine rum. We concluded that it was less about making good shit, but about who would pay us, *rubs hands* handsomely to do it. An enduring conundrum if there ever was one.

Kate Moss infamously once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” and I see that and raise, that nothing is worth not being able to feed myself. I know there is a hunger to be the makers of something good. I feel it too. It pangs in my stomach. I see it in other artists. But what can you do with a craving in an industry that is determined to starve you?

Okay, enough sad shit.

Alexa, play Ego by Beyoncé:

I read somewhere that everything screams before it dies.

I’ve been trying to kill my Ego lately. Every year, I realize that it’s much bigger than I thought, making it trickier to quash. It’s already humbling that I still live at home, (currently writing this from my childhood bedroom!) have no stable income, and am quickly approaching, “I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve no money and no prospects” territory. And still, there is Ego. Like a well, I keep scooping bucketfuls of it out.

I’ve caught myself whispering, ‘ego death’ when I’m confronted with doing something that I’m not in control of. That only just manifested a few weeks ago, mind you, after I decided to finally get my driver’s license. Yes, yes, I know, I know.

To be clear, I am very much afraid of being seen trying. I hate it. I’ve seen that phrase many times on kitsch cardstock in bookstores, and parroted it to myself, with no intention to live by it. Don’t look at me trying, actually, and don’t perceive me, ever, is how I’ve led my life. But that bitch named Ego is going down! She can’t stop me!! Well…not more than she already has.

I don’t know if my Ego screams every time I decide to do something scary, but the physical reactions are there. My heart beats faster, sweat beads form, the skin on my arms buzz. But taking the next step anyway gives me a taste of what true freedom feels like.

Like, wow! I’m really the master of my own destiny, huh?

What use is there in acknowledging a shortcoming, when there’s no plan to remedy it? This is the year of finding remedies. Writing this down, here for you to read is intentional, too. You are reading this, and that holds me accountable. If someone knows what I intend, then I will try very hard.

Til then,

Big kiss, little kiss

megan

Do ya’ll know a deeply unserious and thus, extremely quotable figure in sports media that goes by the name of Stephen A. Smith? If you don’t, just imagine Wendy Williams if she added basketball stats to her ‘Hot Topics’ segment, and you’ll get the picture. At the beginning of January, he released a video on his show (that is eponymously named) with the sole intention of embarrassing another grown man for the equivalent length of a Law & Order episode.

Now, drama is drama no matter who tells it! So did I tune in to this public flogging on the train ride home, using up the last bits of my battery to revel in every, “piece of shit,” “you bitch,” and “cretin!” that was hurled at a man I had never met? Well, yes!

I texted one of my friends afterward wondering what would happen to Stephen A.’s job. As a journalist under ESPN, and subsequently the House of Mouse, there’s no way they would let him keep his job, right? I scrubbed back through the video and realized he in fact would keep his job because he was his own boss! The show wasn’t under any big business or conglomerate; it was his and his alone. Every heinous and occasionally horny thing he said reflective of a Black straight man in his fifties (problematic, and absolutely misogynist) was fair game.

I thought, now see? Here’s a prime example of why everyone needs a passion project. There’s a freedom in doing what you love, and for Stephen A. I’m sure answering tweets like, “how thick is too thick?” is his freedom. His feel the rain on your skin fantasy, if you will.

What dawned on me after the fact was that when it came to writing, I didn’t feel that freedom anymore. At least, I hadn’t felt it in a very long time. And I cannot tell you how humbling it was to come to that conclusion after watching a video from a man whose pronunciation of Charmander is dubious at best.

When I picked out the name for this newsletter two years ago, I had all these grand plans for what it would be. I wanted it to feel splashy, effortlessly funny, and cool. As a freelance writer, I’ve often felt like every interesting idea I’ve ever thought up should be saved; hoarded, and stashed away in the chance that it could be used as an idea I could pitch later on and get published. There were all sorts of stuff I had for Let Me Say This, but I kept thinking: don’t write that here, pitch it goddamnit!! Which, in hindsight, is the antithesis of what I want this to be. 

I want to have fun writing here. I miss having fun writing. 

I miss jotting ideas down for the sake of seeing what they look like on paper, rather than for an editor to decide if it’s good enough to publish. 

A creator I follow on Instagram, Flex Mami, talked about something similar recently in a post: 

“Maybe journaling “doesn’t work” for you because you write down your inner most thoughts as if someone is going to read it, grade it, and then give you feedback. BE OBNOXIOUS WRITE IT ALL DOWN”

I immediately resonated with what she wrote, but also thought, “wait…is this fucking play about us?” Because the person she was describing sounded a lot like me. I had become a writer who wrote my things only for other people to decide if they were worthy or not. When did I abandon writing as a craft and a practice to myself? For myself? When did I start seeing it as only a means to an end for money? (The answer is during the Summer of 2020, but I digress) 

Let me say this, I am a journalist.

I went to school for journalism, so the plan was always to be paid through words (looking bleak in that department I fear!) but this year, I want to get as far away as possible from writing for content's sake. Or mining hyper-specific stories that hinge specifically on my identity to be a publication’s trauma story that month. 

No, really. Have you seen what some of these pitch calls look like? 

“Are you a BIPOC and/or queer orphan, going through a breakup, moving to a new city, and suffering from IBS?? I’d love to hear from you!” Is everyone okay?? Enough is ENOUGH. 

In the Let Me Say This newsletter you can look for standard pop cultural shit-talking, existential life updates, and most of all, Fun Shit™. In this space, loose thoughts like: “Larsa from Real Housewives is not a good friend” mingle with other thoughts like, “Bring back headpieces on red carpets!” and go out to drinks with thoughts like, “What happens if a sex worker gets a silk press, but has work the next day??”

I can’t guarantee that I’ll always make sense, or that anything here will have a relevant argument, but this “writer girl” says that’s okay—shout out to Carole! 

Here’s to being obnoxious, and writing it all down.

Big kiss, little kiss,

megan