A friend of my husband’s died recently. I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. I knew enough about him that when my husband said, “I talked to ______,” I knew who he meant. The one in the band. From New Jersey. Father to young enough kids. He could build things with his hands. People who can do that—turn geometry into a house—I find that impressive. I build fears with my mind, sometimes I turn them into stories. Not equally as impressive, but it’s something.
My husband does not have dead friends, that’s me. Many of the people I used to know are dead. Suicides, overdoses, cancer, car wrecks. For a time, each one was more brutal than the next. When I called a still alive person from college and asked, “Do people keep dying around you?” and he said, “I mean, not really, ten years ago it was a slaughter.” I knew what he meant.
My husband would not. I am grateful for that.
But about the band. The Jersey one. The one with the chug-a-chug guitars and double bass. The one that played at recreation centers and basements, probably living rooms too. You do not know them by name or have ever seen them play live. The band is on Spotify and has 43 monthly listens, almost all of them may be my husband. Less than a thousand accounts have listened to their 1998 album. An algorithm, I feel safe assuming, will not serve their tracks to you, even if you like New Jersey hardcore from 25 years ago.
In terms of impact, importance, popularity; this band did not make it judging by digital listens. I don’t know if the band has a Facebook page. An Instagram account? Is BandTok even a thing? If it is, they were not doing that either. Band members are middle aged now, with families and jobs, and, of course, a funeral to plan. There is no time for a digital strategy.
From this view, why did this guy—or any member of the band—even bother to pick up a guitar, stand in front of a microphone and scream their voice hoarse? Maybe it was fun, maybe it wasn’t. Does any of it matter?
Musicians make music so people listen, I write stories so people read them. A tremendous fear of everyone who makes something is what if it lands with a whimper and not a bang? What if it ends up in the dollar bin? What if my art, this thing I labored over, only matters to me?
I cannot tell you the amount of hours I spend what if-ing. It is my favorite hobby. There should be a game show, maybe Pat Sajak and Vanna are there, and contestants spin the wheel of scenarios and only the truly outlandish and elaborate responses—so the neurotic and deranged ones—get points. I’d try out immediately, and I would win.
I think every writer who writes about fear thinks it only happens to them. I know I am not alone, but writing is lonely, thoughts tell you all kinds of things. It is tremendously difficult to keep the good ones with you, and throw out the trash. Especially when so much of art within capitalism demands value by units sold, number of downloads, unique views, impressions, signups, trending hashtags, opening day numbers. Pick your medium, there’s a measure of “value” for it.
The best thing I’ve ever read about motherhood isn’t even a book, it’s a zine. Published in 2003, MamaPhiles is 132 half-pages about pregnancy, childbirth, midwifery, and everything in between by 30ish writers. Eventually spanning four issues, it’s that first one that took residence in my heart and said, “you’re not alone.” Which is something I desperately needed to read from other poor, young, politically engaged, punk rock-adjacent, educated writers also raising kids. At the time, the majority of books about motherhood were written by married, white academics complaining about the division of household labor. While time has given me perspective on their experiences, back then I could not relate to what I saw as a comfortable life compared to my precarious, day-to-day living.
Does MamaPhiles have value? Technically it isn’t even a book. It’s photocopied pages stapled together. But, yes, it has tremendous value to me. My life would be worse, my perspective smaller, my sense of self diminished, if I had not read this zine. A zine, I should note, I paid for—it was not a freebie. Are any of the writers bestsellers? Not to my knowledge, but a few have gone on to sustain their financial lives through writing and publishing.
For a long time, I said to myself, I will have a book published by the time I turn 40 and then it came and it went. It went because I realized writing with an expiration date is a terrible fucking way to create anything. As if what I write here is nothing, and the stuff before it, also nothing. That is absurd.
Just as absurd as thinking that 43 listens on a music streaming app is indicative of value and impact; of what’s worthy of creation or a waste of time. Putting your whole self, or even half of yourself into making something is always worth it. Even if it’s garbage by someone else’s standard, but a masterpiece in yours. In so many ways, I am grateful for the people who make shit but think it’s earth shatteringly exceptional. Every day I wake up wishing I was dumb and delusional, and yet here I am so very much not. It really holds you back, being self aware. To make something and then put it out into the world you have to be a bit of a maniac in love with yourself and then, once that’s done and over with, somehow find the strength to carry on when the world doesn’t feel the same way.
But for a minute, it is exhilarating to think you can bend creation with your voice and make something or be someone exceptional. And sometimes it even lasts a little longer than paint fumes.
Ask my husband about the guy he knew in a band from New Jersey.
CURRENTLY
Reading: Dirtbag, Massachusetts: A Confessional
I know nothing about this except for the first sentence I read. It had me, right there.
Subscribing: My Big Dumb Brain
Katie’s husband died while running a half marathon, and in this post she asks: How can I exercise without fear ever again? Really powerful stuff here. Do give it a read.
Watching: Jake “the Snake” Roberts Biography on A&E
I am a huge wrestling fan. Jake the Snake is one of the best to ever do it, and this documentary from A&E is intense, messy, and redemptive. I highly recommend it, but it is dark. Brace yourself.
Wearing: Aveeno Body Oil
Bill Burr does a bit about dry skin and white people and I’ve never been this far gone, but I’ve been close. I’ve added body oil to my moisturizing and 10/10, highly recommend. If everyone already knows this, just tap me on the head a couple times and then push me into oncoming traffic.
If Flop Era made you feel a way this week, go ahead and tap on that heart button or share this story with a friend. It helps people discover my writing. Which, OF COURSE, we can all get behind. Just like we can all agree Chris Pine is the best Chris.
“ Every day I wake up wishing I was dumb and delusional, and yet here I am so very much not.”
Every day since my teens.