Being a Library

A thank you excerpt

I’m working on general morale this week. As some of you know, I’ve been plodding along on a novel for the last year and a half or so— not a small undertaking by any means. It’s been a process that feels like collage, research, marathon, channeling, and self-investigation all at the same time. Having this long-term creative space to examine and document sexuality, my relationship with New York City, academia, and masculinity has provided a refuge with no foreseeable ending or deadline.

On a whim a week or so ago I changed my Instagram business category to “Library.” Unexpectedly, that small change has given me permission to think differently about what it is that I do. What I do this month is: become attuned to three levels of Reiki healing, get CPR certified, learn the NADA five-point ear acupuncture protocol, consult with a client about a tattoo cover-up project for critical safety reasons, go to the NYPL special collections at Lincoln Center to watch a 45-minute body modification documentary from the 90s on VHS, sign up for a workshop with Erotics of Liberation, conduct an oral history interview, read multiple books about love. I’m not sure what the job description is for this, but library feels nice.

All this is to say how deeply in gratitude I am to those of you who are paid subscribers to this newsletter. It genuinely helps fill in the gaps around other work, and to compensate me for time and labor that would otherwise go unpaid. This year has seen me spend less time in my art studio— less time making physical objects— than ever before, and being able to see a material effect from writing here makes it feel more officially like Something I Do.

As a token of my appreciation, I’m sharing (nervously!) a chapter from my still-very-in-progress novel below. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being here with me.

Special thanks goes as well to the people who send sweet notes of solidarity and connection— both in response to last week’s newsletter and in general. It means a lot to receive these missives.

I also want to shout out my friend Cody Cook-Parrot’s Landscapes writing group, a place that contains incredible energy and support for writers and has been both a balm and an accountability zone for me as I write.

If you love supporting Substacks, may I also humbly suggest the newly-launched Ideals by Mandy Harris Williams aka IdealBlackFemale?

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Sam sprinted, feet pounding the concrete, and dove through the bus doors just as the driver motioned to close them. Panting, he flung himself and his backpack into an empty seat and tried to catch his breath, glaring at the bus driver, who remained unaffected. He leaned against the window, closing his eyes and listening to the thumping of his own heart.

A loud thud sounded next to his head. He jerked away from the window, his head leaving a void in the condensation he hadn’t noticed was forming. The glass fogged with moisture. He strained to see what had caused the thud, seeing only the red and white blur of traffic lights beyond a watery film.

A second thud collided with the glass, harder this time. Another hit from what sounded like the other side of the bus. Before he registered the spatial change, another thud sounded, wetter, and another. Rapid-fire they kept coming, sounding like something more solid than hard rain. The entire bus was being assailed, hits coming from all sides and parts of the roof.