Letters from the Homestead: January 2022
On being a lover of newspapers, chaotic wall art, and Adriene.
Emily Dickinson called her Amherst home “The Homestead.” I lovingly call my apartment in St. Louis the same thing (although I definitely get out more than Dickinson). This monthly newsletter is my attempt to work through what it feels like to put down roots as an artist in my own Homestead. In it, I’m honest about what’s saving my life right now, what’s hard, and what I’m pouring my energy into.
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On being a newspaper lover.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved the touch and feel of an actual newspaper, and my daily paper delivery to my apartment in St. Louis is one of the most dependable things to get me outdoors in the morning, hunting around my yard for The New York Times. Getting an actual paper delivery feels like such an extravagance to me, a luxury that I prioritize despite being pretty stingy in other respects. (Admittedly, I cancel and restart my subscription pretty regularly in order to nab big discounts.)
Judging by the other empty morning lawns on my street, I think I may be the only one who gets a paper delivery. This feels odd when I remember that my grandmother used to have a special plastic reciprocal underneath her Valley, Alabama mailbox that was specifically reserved for the paper. Mine generally ends up in the flower bed.
Do I read the paper front to back every morning? Absolutely not. I don’t think I’ve ever done that. I’m a skimmer at best—I do the mini crossword on page three and glaze over headlines and pictures in search of something interesting to read. There are some topics I can’t ignore: the articles about women under Taliban rule in Afghanistan; anything having to do with abortion rights; the theatre reviews; and, of course, the “Food” special section on Wednesdays is one of the highlights of my week.
I sort of let the paper wash over me, like I’m looking for something that begs for my attention. Obviously, this is not a very democratic method of consuming the news, but I like it a helluva lot more than getting my news through a computer screen or a Twitter feed. I think what I like the most about this method is that no one is ever demanding me to pay attention to specific stories; I find the ones I need to read on my own, and I like taking ownership over what is most important to me as a news-reader.
Do you know the best part about getting a hard copy of the paper? The clippings.
The next section will show you why…
How the images taped to my wall save me every day.
When I was twelve years old, I got my first “teen magazine.” I don’t remember subscribing to it, and I certainly didn’t buy it myself, but like some sort of adolescent magic, Girls’ Life magazine appeared in the mailbox with my name on the address line. After I read it through cover to cover, I immediately tore out every interesting page and taped them to my bedroom wall so that I could see the contents of the magazine on the horizontal, absorbing them visually in unison.
It made sense to me to visually clarify the contents of this strange and exciting new thing I’d received. The linear format of the stapled magazine (including all the excess Lip Smackers and Rue 21 ads scattered throughout) wasn’t enough for me; I needed to see it as a storyboard for becoming a teenager. When I close my eyes, I can still visualize what those glossy torn pages looked like taped to the purple walls of my childhood bedroom. My parents, bless them, let me have at it.
I still do this, though. I’m a little more tasteful about all that cutting and pasting now that I’m in my thirties, but every workspace I occupy is slowly and steadily papered with clippings and pictures and poems and notes. There is no method; there is only chaos. But space doesn’t feel “worked in” for me until something ends up on the wall. (And, yes, my print NYT subscription absolutely fuels this habit.)
Just like when I was twelve ripping apart a magazine, the clippings I put on the wall are always there because I want to be reminded of something. I see an idea or thought that I like, and so I hold onto it, keeping it right in front of me until it proves useful somehow.
Some examples:
The obituary of Thich Nhat Hanh, who died this past week. This was the first Buddhist writer I ever read when I was in college, and I’ve clung to his work ever since.
An article about a singer who lost her voice after trauma. I’m convinced there is a play here.
The glory of Kristen Stewart. She is nice to look at.
An old René Magritte postcard I found in a used book. On the back is a note from one actor to another— “Till we work together again,” wrote the sender.
A postcard from the Cahokia Mounds in Illinois—to remind me that profound topographical and Indigenous history is just across the river.
The clippings are sometimes pieces of projects not yet begun, but they also make me feel a lot less lonely in my little closet office. They also save me in the sense that I’m released from trying to hold everything in my mind. Knowing that they are there when I need them, I’m free to just work.
Another 30 Days of Yoga (with Adriene) to start the year.
Last year, my friends Lex, Rachel, and I set up our text message chain to keep ourselves accountable for 30 Days of Yoga with Adriene, patron saint of Blue Heelers and pandemic wellness. We started up our accountability chain once more on January 1st, and today we finished our 30 Day journey of doing a yoga practice every day.
The hardest part about doing this month of yoga was realizing how much my body has changed since last January, half a pandemic in the past. I felt stronger at the end of these thirty days, but I couldn’t help but clock how my body moved differently this year than the last—and how the shape of myself seemed unfamiliar in the mirror I have propped up against the wall in front of my mat.
Regardless, it felt good to start the year with something intentional, and I’m committed to at least rolling out my yoga mat once a day from now on, even if that’s as far as I get.
I might actually be a little in love with Adriene herself, which may be why I come back so consistently to her videos. She doesn’t seem quite real—a beautiful, calming human who appears to really give a damn if I take time to care for myself. As far as imaginary girlfriends go, this is not the worst thing to take away from a delusion: self-care, after all, is pretty swell.
One thing my imaginary girlfriend reiterated during this 30-day journey (called “Move”), was the question, “What is it you’re moving toward?”
For the past month, I’ve been thinking hard about my answer. What am I moving toward?
In last month’s newsletter, I wrote about how I’ve deemed this year The Year of the Writer, which is my way of prioritizing the work that I’ve been doing all along, making writing central and claiming it as part of my identity. But I’m not “moving toward” being a writer. I already am that.
The first thing that came to mind was that I am moving toward slowness. You would think that a whole pandemic’s worth of the world coming to a screeching halt would slow me down, but in fact, it sped me up. I’ve written more in these two years than I did in all of graduate school; I’ve demanded discipline of myself, starting and finishing projects with razzing energy; and I’ve taken my work seriously, applying for residencies and fellowships that I never would have glanced at before. None of this has been slow.
I think I’d like to slow down a little.
Just a little.
What I’m reading this month…
The Rule of Saint Benedict by Saint Benedict (Edited by Timothy Fry, O.S.B.). I’m working on a fiction project with a character who is a Benedictine nun, and so I’ve been trying to read straight through The Rule. Some of it is admittedly really tiresome, but I’m fascinated by the project of a religious person setting out to create a “rule for living,” not to mention the fact that people have gone on to adopt this rule for centuries.
All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis, Edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson. This is a collection of essays and poems related to climate change, a gift from my friend Janet Marie. I’ve dipped into it before, but I came to it afresh after watching the stalled progress in Congress on climate change initiatives. What I like about this book is that it speaks about climate change and activism from a position of hope, not gloom. Don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of gloom wrapped up in a steadily warming planet, but books like this preach that not all is lost—not yet, at least.
Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution by Shiri Eisner. There are shockingly few books about bisexuality, but this is definitely one of the best and most thorough I’ve read so far. What I appreciate the most about this book is that it examines bisexuality through the lens of sexual politics, social justice, and activism. It’s a solid piece of well-crafted gender studies scholarship that’s still approachable for a non-academic reader.
How I made money this month $$$
I believe freelance artists should be more upfront about how they support themselves financially, so this is me living out that principle. Here are all the ways I brought in money to The Homestead for January.
Audiobook narration. Always out here narrating audiobooks. One fun development of my winter break is that I cleared out the closet in my spare room to better accommodate my home studio space (it’s a slightly bigger closet with room for a comfier chair). I finally got my bedroom closet back!
Facilitating/Consulting for online graduate courses. This is ongoing work that I do for an online education company. I love how it keeps me interacting with graduate-level students, even if it’s just through a computer screen.
Onboarding for Prison Performing Arts as a teaching artist. I’m so excited to start teaching again. This month, my friend Rachel walked me through the onboarding process for teaching creative writing at some of the correctional facilities in Missouri. Starting soon!
Paid Substack subscriptions. If you are a paid subscriber of this newsletter, you have my deepest gratitude. Thank you for supporting my work!
A winter storm is on its way…
A snowstorm is on its way to St. Louis this week. Today, I bought eggs and bread—the winter catastrophizing of my Southernness in full bloom. My car has been carefully parked pointing downhill, the front wheels turned to the curb. I picked up a new book to read when the snow finally falls. Extra blankets are on the bed.
All my preparations done, and the snow isn’t supposed to arrive for two more days.
I am not very good with snow. It freaks me out. But I’m learning that a little preparation goes a long way in abating my snow-loathing. For this snowstorm, I intend to enjoy myself.
Stay warm and safe, friends.
Yours ever & etc., etc.,
Courtney, Mistress of the Homestead, and Noble Midge the Cat
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