The tenderness of sharing new work.
Here is a Letter from the Homestead for April 2024. ✍️ Inside: the heat of the sun, the necessity of good notebooks, and how I made money as a freelance artist this past month.
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 a writer in my own Homestead.
The tenderness of sharing new work.
This newest play of mine, Romanov Family Yard Sale, has an excessive subtitle: “A Purgation Play — told in three demonstrations and a culminating moviefilm.” I’m guilty of loving an extravagant subtitle, but I especially love this one. A purgation play, that’s what I’m calling it.
The tenderness of sharing a “purgation play” is that it inevitably reveals what you might wish to purge within yourself. This month, that question has been filling my head—what am I trying to purge?
I had some friends over a few weeks ago to read the full draft of the play. It shocked me how vulnerable I felt during that reading, so nervous about whether people would laugh or if they would see too closely into the subtext of the play. Actually, I don’t think the play is very subtle. It’s a play about letting yourself be sad. I don’t want to purge sadness, but I do want to purge all the stuff and coping mechanisms I’ve carried around for too long, hopeful they would make me happy.
Sometimes, I wish I could live only in the two hours it takes to hear a new play—a good play, a play you’ve written carefully as a gift for your friends, a play that’s meant to make them laugh. It’s a joyful two hours of pure discovery, and it sets the tone for the whole project. You want to be sure you aren’t sharing the work too early. It may still need time to cook. You also don’t want to share the same thing over and over again. It’s easy for people to get worn out. It’s the newness of a play-reading that I love; that’s the energy I want most to capture.
Still, the surge of vulnerability I felt during that first reading made me realize how tender these moments are for me. I suppose they are like that for everyone, but I’d hoped a few good years of writing professionally would arm me against this feeling. Well, it didn’t. I felt vulnerable, exposed, and sweaty-nervous. I wanted my friends to like the play. I wanted my friends to have fun. That’s sort of my whole reason for playwriting: I want to hang out with my friends and for them to have lots of fun (which makes me also have lots of fun).
In all our chants about “get your work out there!” and “be brave! share your work!”, maybe we forget how much sharing new work makes us sweat. I sweat through that morning play-reading and remembered this truth anew.
“Fear no more the heat of the sun…”
I had a conversation earlier this year with a friend who works in climate sustainability. She told me that the number of days in St. Louis that exceed 100 degrees Fahrenheit will increase dramatically over the next fifty years. I cannot remember the exact number, but I do remember thinking, “Wow, that is a lot of days over 100 degrees.”
“Essentially,” Climate Friend explained, “you can imagine a big circus tent with the peak as Chicago hanging over the lower states—that’s the heat dome we’re dealing with.”
I am under the circus tent. And if you are a local friend of mine, so are you.
As a committed St. Louisan, this means that the rest of my life will include ever-increasing calendar days dominated by extreme heat. Climate Friend went on to explain that there will likely be a significant migration of people to the northern states, primarily close to the Great Lakes. (Apparently, Duluth, Michigan is the place the be in fifty years.)
Since I don’t plan on migrating, I need to make peace with the heat of the sun, something I’ve fought against for years—first as a child and teenager in the South, then as a graduate student in Central Texas, and now as an adult living in St. Louis. Yes, the planet is warming at an alarming rate. Yes, humankind is responsible for the intense spike in heat. Yes, the sun will eventually explode.
But I am increasingly disenchanted with climate nihilism. I’m tired of spending so much time complaining about the heat, hiding in a dark room in front of my AC vent. I’m tired of climate doom. (Fun fact: climate-related doom and extinction is woven into the geologic history of our planet.) Instead, I want to figure out how to just be hot, stay safe, enjoy the planet, and allow my body to adapt to the changing climate.
Of course, I’m not diminishing the real threat of heat-related illness, but I do wish to live more fully in the reality of my immediate environment. For instance, how do I dress better for the heat? How do I gain practical knowledge about airflow in my building? How do I create safe zones in my home when the heat outside is too extreme? How do I take care of my body? Is it possible to fully acclimate to extreme weather like this? And how do I pay more earnest attention to the interesting changes (plant life, animal life, etc.) that heat brings?
Also, how do I find a good hat that doesn’t crush my curly bun on top of my head? Will I look stupid in a straw cowgirl hat? Why are hats so hard for me?
Would love to hear your thoughts if you are also considering how to live alongside climate change in a way that isn’t brutally nihilistic. ☀️
Notebook Tour: 3 notebooks working for me right now
I have strong opinions about notebooks, so this is just a little blurb to note what’s working for me right now. One of my commitments to myself is to always have a notebook on my person—it’s one of the easiest ways for me to stay connected to my writing practice, and, if it’s in my bag or pocket, I’m bound to use it.
Field Notes graphing notebook + notebook cover. This is a daily notebook for me. When I’m writing scripts or prose, I will draft in these small notebooks (less intimidating than a fancy notebook!) and then I’ll type/revise later. When I finish a notebook, I just change it out. These are slim enough to fit in my bag or pocket, and they fit a Sharpie fine-point pen nicely. Sticker design is mine, lol.
Leuchtturm 1917 A5, dotted. This is what I use for journaling. It’s important to me to have a separate notebook that’s only for diary-keeping, not for scattered notes (though it certainly holds plenty of that).
Leuchtturm pocket size, dotted. I’ve had this same hardback pocket notebook for years. It has a little bit of everything in it. I find that it’s the place for notes that I’m not sure about putting anywhere else—a random idea, a doodle, or a list of ingredients for a project. I don’t always carry this notebook with me, but it’s always hanging around.
What I’m Reading this Month…
1000 Words: A Writer’s Guide to Staying Creative, Focused, and Productive All Year Round by Jami Attenberg. This is a great book to keep on your writing desk. I am not reading it chronologically; instead, I’m jumping around in the text, enjoying the short entries. I’ve even pulled some sections to share in my writing workshops.
The Recovering: Intoxication and its Aftermath by Leslie Jamison. A great book about the history of recovery systems in the twentieth-century, as well as American/British literature’s relationship to drinking. It’s also a beautiful memoir about how challenging it is to get sober from alcohol when the narratives around the “artist’s life” so frequently romanticize intoxication. Highly recommend.
Cloistered: My Years as a Nun by Catherine Coldstream. I binged this audiobook about Coldstream’s decade as a Carmelite nun in the UK. An incredible look into cloistered life, and a great examination of how hard it was for some Catholic religious orders to come to terms with Vatican II.
Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol by Holly Whitaker. Also binged this audiobook about the capitalist drive of the alcohol industry and how we cope with it. Whitaker’s tone is super firm—it’s a great angle if you’re looking for a sobriety memoir (sometimes called “quit lit”) that doesn’t spend too much time in it’s feelings.
How I made money this month $$$
I believe freelance artists should be more upfront about how they support themselves financially, rather than maintaining the illusion that they are fully supported by their art (they usually aren’t). This is me attempting to live out that principle. So, here are all the ways I brought in money to the Homestead for the month of April.
Teaching artist work for Prison Performing Arts. Teaching a weekly writing workshop on Zoom and teaching Spoken Word regularly inside a men’s prison. This month, I also continued leading some writing sessions at a probation/parole center.
Playing piano for a local Catholic middle school’s chapel service. I’m learning to play a lot of gospel tunes and Mass music. I’m a pretty mediocre piano player, but this is one of the highlights of my week.
Paid Substack subscriptions. Thank you to all of my paid subscribers. It means the world to me that you make a financial contribution to my work.
Wishing you well this month.
I’m keeping my eyes on the campus protests happening around the country, especially in my own city. As someone who used to teach college students, I’m in awe of the organizing capabilities of this current group of university-age students. They are a testament to how adherence to propriety frequently reinforces oppression; they understand that disruption is often necessary; and they are fully aware of their rights.
Today starts a new month. Happy May Day. 🌺
Yours,
Courtney, Mistress of the Homestead, and Noble Midge the Cat 🐈⬛