::Cue Aaliyah's "Try Again"::
It's been a long time; [I] shouldn't have left you without a dope beat to step to
Oh my golly, where do I begin? With an apology, of course.
I’m tremendously sorry for the hiatus, one of a few that I certainly didn’t plan to take when I started this newsletter. I believe I last wrote—albeit very briefly—in November, and now, months later, our collective world is reeling from an oceanic and terrible change. My own world, too, is markedly different.
In December, my maternal grandfather, my Pop Pop, died after complications from a broken hip. At the end of that month my family celebrated its third Christmas without Mom, who died in November 2017. On February 25, my first book, Too Much, came out. I began my book tour, but after about two weeks had to cancel the rest of my events and shelter in place like everybody else—the only correct choice, but certainly a bummer.
Then, last week, my maternal grandmother died, and because of the lockdown, most of the family—myself included—could neither say goodbye nor be present for the burial. I attended my first funeral over FaceTime, and while I’m so glad that I could participate, even remotely, I will be perfectly happy to never do that again. My grandparents lived long lives, and I am grateful for that, as I am grateful for the many years I had the privilege of loving and being loved by them. But because Mom’s untimely death was followed so swiftly by the death of both her parents I find myself quaking under the bulk of compounded grief. I am realizing that losing people takes the form of a tapestry, or maybe a collage, wherein memories and strands of sorrow and regrets entwine and overlap, sometimes where I might have expected—losing Mom’s parents unsurprisingly intensifies the ache of her absence—and in other cases, where I didn’t—contemplating the pain and trauma of my grandmother’s early years has called to mind some grim personal experiences that I would prefer to forget.
Oh, and a couple of weeks before Grandma died, I severely sprained my ankle, which in the midst of everything else feels like an absurd narrative flourish. Unfortunately, patience is not one of my virtues; I am the fussiest of invalids and am in danger of going full “Yellow Wallpaper” if I don’t heal soon. In the last month, I’ve only been outside once—leaving the apartment means descending a steep staircase, and I still can’t do that without something of a production. And of course, prior to the sprain, I wasn’t going out much since, thank goodness, Maryland and the District of Columbia have put the necessary lockdown protocols in place.
So, here I am, at home, hobbling around, and wondering what to make of everything. Just before my book came out, I thought I would tour and then spend the summer reassessing my professional life. I had more or less come to terms with the fact that I cannot contribute to my household income in the way I want and need to if I rely entirely on book advances and freelance writing. I decided that it was high time to make choices about how exactly to proceed—I already knew that I wanted to work on a second book proposal, but would I also devote more focus on scouting out staff writer positions —the few that exist—or would I consider returning to teaching? (The answer, of course, is that I would need to do all of that and more, and would still be likely to come up dry.)
But as most of us know, this pandemic has shed an even starker light on capitalism’s rickety scaffolding, and so many industries are buckling as a result. Media was already in crisis; now it’s much worse. Freelance budgets have been eliminated all over the place. For the first time in goodness knows how long, I have precisely one (1) outstanding assignment. I am doing the necessary research for my book proposal, but find myself wondering how I can possibly comment meaningfully on any cultural phenomenon when we don’t know what culture will look like in the aftermath of an unprecedented global pandemic. Paul and I are fortunate that he is employed, but being an adjunct professor doesn’t afford you much security, so we are regarding the future cautiously. I could sing Paul’s praises and say what an asset he’d be practically anywhere, but who is hiring? What is there to do, really, but stay the course and wait for whatever comes?
Yet in the grand scheme of things, these are mild concerns. We have a comfortable apartment, food, money for necessities, and we and our loved ones are all healthy. We cohabitate harmoniously and so are able to muddle through this time with loving companionship and precious little aggravation. We have an excellent cat who, thank goodness, is still healthy and active despite her old age.
But I cannot pretend that this time has been emotionally tranquil. In recent years I’ve primarily struggled with anxiety, not depression, but once again I’m oscillating between the two. These circumstances have laid bare so many of my ridiculous little struggles, namely: the depth and stridency of my professional insecurities, which I must confront if I want to keep writing (I am, and I do) and the chilling extent to which I still regard my self-worth as tethered to my productivity and earning power. These are not unique difficulties, I know. I see so many dear friends grappling with one or the other or both, and I wish we could all be permanently soothed. I find myself wishing for all sorts of things lately, even though most of them are beyond my grasp.
So far, this has been a rambling account of my present circumstances, which is not why you subscribed to my newsletter, and you may, understandably, be wondering whether this is still worth your time and/or $5 per month. I am going to do my utmost to keep writing regularly, and to return to the regular programming: Victoriana, 90s pop culture, and intersections of the two. But I know that money is tight for everybody right now, and if you need or want to adjust your subscription then I completely understand. At least until lockdown ends every installment of this newsletter will be free: if my blathering is something you enjoy then I’d like for it to be accessible. That said, I have to prioritize paid work, which might mean that, for the foreseeable future, Cornflake Victorians’ schedule will be a bit erratic. I promise, however, to write whenever I can, and to infuse your inboxes with a dash of pleasure.
I’ll wrap things up with some various and sundry announcements and recommendations, beginning with—you knew it was coming—my book.
Here she is, that saucy bitch:
The events I’ve had the honor of doing, both in person and virtually, have been a delight. It has been meaningful beyond expression to meet readers and to hear that they enjoy, and even find themselves, in my work. I hope, when we’re on the other side of the lockdown, that I will be able to do some more traveling, and in the meantime I have had such fun participating in online readings and conversations. So please, get in touch if your bookstore is hosting virtual author events or your book club is reading Too Much or you are a podcast host who wants to get nerdy. If nothing else, my aforementioned excellent cat, Hobo, might join us, and she’s a real crowd pleaser.
And if you’ve read Too Much I have a sincere request to make: please, please rate and review it on both GoodReads and Amazon as highly as your conscience allows. It can be the same review, copied and pasted, and you need not buy anything from Amazon in order to review it there. Unfortunately, having a slew of positive reviews on these sites helps authors tremendously, especially an author like me, who has a modest following. And while I think it is important for readers to have a space to discuss what they’ve read, Goodreads reviews can be pretty gnarly—I avoid reading most of the negative ones my book receives, but when curiosity has gotten the best of me, and I’ve peeked at a few—whew, it’s been a wild ride. And hey, it is a reader’s right to go for the jugular if they so choose. But it certainly helps to counterbalance the fury with positive remarks. My Goodreads page is here, and my Amazon page is here. If you’d take a few minutes to write a review, that would mean so much to me.
By the way, if you’d like to buy my book, please do that on Bookshop! Proceeds support independent bookstores, so many of which are struggling right now.
Here is a selection of Too Much-related press clippings and such to whet your appetite:
A really lovely review in the Washington Independent Review of Books, and another in Bitch Magazine
Several excerpts! In Bookforum, the Paris Review, Longreads, LitHub (this one went viral!), ELLE, and The Millions
An interview in The Rumpus with Ilana Masad, another in Electric Literature with Richa Kaul Padte, one in the Boston Globe with Kate Tuttle, as well as one in Jezebel with Jacqueline Alnes
Friend and fellow nonfiction debut author Ellen O’Connell Whittet and I were (virtually) hosted by Page 158 Books in Wake Forest, North Carolina for a co-reading and conversation. We talk about expectations of vulnerability in women’s writing, ballet, Victorian literature, writing the body, Britney Spears, and various other matters. You can watch here.
My appearance on the EXCELLENT podcast Fuckbois of Literature
I had the honor of being interviewed by my friend and literal role model Maris Kreizman for her first live recording of The Maris Review. Check out our conversation, which was recorded during our event at The Strand Bookstore in New York.
Okay, that’s enough of book nonsense. But if you can stomach just a touch more Rachel content, I also wrote about Carly Rae Jepsen’s too muchness for Longreads and celebrated Anna Sewell’s bicentennial with an essay about Black Beauty for dear Jezebel, my stomping grounds of old.
Now, for some non-RVC links and recommendations!
I’m currently reading The Illness Lesson, by Clare Beams, and can hardly put it down. It’s a feminist neo-Victorian novel—so, precisely my catnip, and I expect many of you are similarly inclined. But even if you’re not, read it anyway. It’s fantastic. I also thoroughly recommend What You Become in Flight, Ellen O’Connell Whittet’s graceful debut memoir, Temporary, a deliciously surreal debut novel by Hilary Leichter, and You Will Never Be Forgotten, a splendid debut short story collection by Mary South.
Other books in my staggering-with-brilliance TBR pile include So We Can Glow, by Leesa Cross-Smith, Shiner, by Amy Jo Burns, Lakewood, by Megan Giddings, Good Morning, Destroyer of Men’s Souls, by Nina Renata Aron, Stay Up With Hugo Best, by Erin Somers, Here for It, by R. Eric Thomas, and Under the Rainbow, by Celia Laskey.
If you haven’t yet seen Portrait of a Lady on Fire, it is streaming on Hulu and is frankly worth a free trial. Much like the series Dickinson, which we have discussed in a previous installment, watching it made me feel as if someone had crawled around in my brain, gathered up all of my various predilections, and witched them into a gorgeous visual narrative. It is lush and sexy and a brilliant interrogation of female desire, agency, and artistic representation.
On a different note: Lately I’ve found making playlists really soothing. It captures my neurotic energy for the purpose of something entirely pleasurable. Paul and I have each created a series of them, organized around decades, and beginning with the 1960s. Then, when we’ve completed a new one, we drink wine while listening and sharing our reactions. I’m arranging my 2010s playlist now, after which point I’ll be finished and will have to choose a different organizing principle. I’ve been contemplating one focused on “touch” since, well, we’re not supposed to do much of that these days. If you want to check out mine, just search my name on Spotify. My 80s track list is especially good, I think.
Finally, I recommend this instagram account devoted to ~thicc capybaras~ with my whole entire heart. Capybaras, I am convinced, are the emotional support creatures of the animal kingdom.
In fact, roly-poly capybaras seem like the right sign off note, so I’ll conclude here. If you’re still with me, thank you. Truly, it means the world. And I’ll write to you again soon. Please take care and be safe and do what you can to be gentle with yourself.
In too muchness,
Rachel