On one side of the table sits R and her high school sweetheart, the picture of stability, and on the other side lies L and I, living paycheck to paycheck and sharing a room. My skin chafes against the poverty line.

Between us, the stroller is parked. Even though I’m only his aunt, the baby has my eyes.

In this moment, I envy R. This life seems preferable to mine. But is any of it what I want? Even if it is, she’s six years older than me. Perhaps I simply have to pay the dues of youth before I’ll be allotted some semblance of stability.

Or perhaps that’s just what I tell myself.

Memories I’d nearly forgotten came crawling back into the fore of my mind, the events slowly coming into focus like a dream remembered hours after waking.

So much of this, I’d blocked out — intentionally forgotten.

My mother’s house, no longer the same: new furniture, my books long-gone — even my mother herself isn’t the same as the idea of her that exists in my mind. The streets appear wider and emptier than I remember; not a car in sight, nor even the sounds of a distant engine. I see no trace of myself in the place I once called home.

While I wait for the shower to heat up, I catch sight of the yellow step stool from my childhood, paint cracking to reveal its once-blue body. I’d thought it was safely confined to that old farm a few miles South.

The unbearable brightness of the bathroom’s fluorescent lightbulbs drive me into the spare bedroom, where I’ve been confined for the duration of the trip. Twisting to face the light like one of those heliotropic flowers, I return to my cosmetic bag. Through the window lies a clear view of the vacant residential street which is all my nephew has ever known. I wonder if the silence of the suburbs is preferable to that of an isolated homestead. I hope so, for his sake.

The only people I saw leave their houses that weekend were the neighborhood kids, somehow uncorrupted by the consumerism and technology that inhibits the rest of us. Two of them pass by, walking and talking — and I envy them. They have no bills, no obligations, no jobs. They are absorbed in the soap operas of their lives.

I see now — for the first time — how easily I could slip into complacency. How I could settle instead of strive, becoming an observer in my own life. There is a comfort to be found in claustrophobia; it wraps you tightly in its choking embrace. Plasticky green lawns broken by five feet of distance from one to the next are riddled with the same few soulless lawn decorations in various stages of decay; the sun bleaching everything into a muted, palatable hue. Endless rows of cookie-cutter houses sit idly next to each other, so similar that I have to stop L and remind her when we’ve reached our destination. She’s been gone longer than I — thus having had more time to forget, to replace those memories like rerecording a new video over an old tape.

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As I drove through the ghost town I once called home, recollections and muscle memory worked in tandem to remind me of my spatial orientation. My high school. The grocery store my mother once worked at. The now-vacant building where I held my first job.

I’ve spent the bulk of my life in this town, yet I feel no nostalgia for it. I possess no bleeding heart in this ruthless desert. Animal or human, one has to harden themselves to survive.

I came so close to forgetting entirely; starting anew. But coming back here reopened the wound, and I felt the opportunity I once held slipping through my fingers with every passing moment.

The morning of the party, I try to busy myself with arranging fruit bowls and charcuterie boards to avoid being put on babysitting duty. L is so much better with children than I am. This inadequacy has always been a source of insecurity for me, making me feel like less of a woman. Without a maternal instinct, what good am I? This is how you are conditioned to think in a town like this, with a family like mine.

At two o’clock, cars begin filling up the driveway and spilling onto the street. Halfway through the party, after an adequate amount of socializing with millennial parents and rambunctious children, the main event begins. My nephew delicately grabs handfuls of white cake with blue frosting, his name in cursive now a smeared cerulean mess across his mouth. He’ll have no memory of this, but I will. I begin to wonder if we’ll be doing this all over again in a year’s time.

The man whom I had a schoolgirl crush on at age ten now has a child of his own. I’d forgotten about that crush, retiring him merely to the status of “acquaintance” until now. Seeing that familiar face — strong nose, half-closed eyes — brought all of those memories flooding back. Suddenly, images of the way he did his hair back then flashed in my mind, a style indicative of the times.

He remembers me as the sad child I was. At R’s wedding years ago, he had joked after one too many beers about the only memory he has of me from back then, a memory I myself don’t even have anymore.

His baby stares at me for incredibly long periods of time, toothless smile spreading across his face with ease. An adorable child, happier than any I’ve ever met — the antithesis of me.

I do my best to make the baby smile, which isn’t difficult. Stretching my facial muscles into a cartoonish shock à la I Love Lucy always seems to do the trick — something I learned through trial and error with my nephew. The baby’s father catches me looking at him only once from across the room. He later calls me by L’s name, but catches himself. I wasn’t going to correct him. I spend the remainder of the evening nodding along numbly as his girlfriend talks about nothing but the child.

Rebranding the blog formerly known as Literary Repertoire is something that has been on my mind for a very long time. The name itself implied a relatively narrow definition of what I could — or should — write about. While I love literature, I don’t want to put undue pressure on myself to write content solely based around book reviews. That takes the fun out of it; turns it into a chore.

Memento Mori, originally the name of my offshoot of a book club, is a turn-of-phrase that I find to be more resonant with me and my brand than this publication’s former title. Though it is relatively common, as far as Latin goes, I like it. And that’s all that really matters.

When I first started on Substack, I just wanted to be successful. I thought I’d have to stick to a particular niche, mimic the strategies employed by magazines, write about whatever was trending. But I’ve gradually begun to pivot, posting more of whatever I want and less of what I think will be a success. I was not happy with the discongruity of my publication. I felt that there were a handful of posts I continued to be proud of, and plenty of others that I outgrew, or posted just for the sake of posting. Thus, I’ve pruned. Spring cleaning, if you will.

You might be wondering what this means for the publication. My intention is to post more authentically, which is vague but true. I will likely end up posting more prose, fiction, and poetry, alongside paywalled content regarding the contemporary Gothic novella I want to publish before the year’s end. And after that, more content regarding the other books I’m writing.

I’ve been in a slump lately, but am trying to claw my way out of it. I know that I’m the sole member of my book club (which will retain the same name as the publication, for streamlining purposes), but I’ll probably continue to work on it. It helps to hold me accountable, and provides an opportunity to provide book recommendations in a structured way.

I hope that this rebrand will help me to become even more aligned with my authentic self, as cheesy as that may sound. And in-turn, to connect me with more people who resonate with the kind of content I’m drawn to producing and consuming.

My true passion is fiction. I love so many different kinds of content and writing, but fiction truly has my heart. Always has, and always will.

Oh — and you can expect a rebrand of a new pen name for me soon enough.

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I became suddenly aware of the water lapping quietly at my body, glimmering with what little light shone through the small window above. The sensation felt foreign against my skin, and coupled with the bland Summer air, it was made to feel colder than it really was.

I’d been advised years ago to draw a bath and sit very still with the lights off when suf…

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When you hear that word, that violent, ugly word, it brings to mind terrible imagery: screaming, crying, bruising. But rape can come in many shapes and sizes. When it’s done by a man whom you’re intimate with, it seems to blur the definition.

The term date rape negates its potency. It undermines the act.

But it’s quite simple, really: rape is non-consensual sex.

I did not consent. He did not ask me. If he had asked me, I’d have said no.

I feel the need to go into detail, to justify, to prove that I did not consent. I shouldn’t have to feel like this.

***

Our first date — I, sweaty; him, late. He bought me some huge fruity thing that tasted like juice and slipped me seamlessly into drunkenness while we played bar trivia and crafted inside jokes. He held my hands in his, a small act that had surprising consequences.

I liked that he was forward. I’m aloof — my fatal flaw. I’ve always been drawn to men who are more bold than I; they fill the void I leave.

He proposed we walk to a dessert shop nearby, and paid an exorbitant amount of money for some chocolatey concoction that we ate under the stars. It was here that he told me about the firepit and its accompanying view from the roof of his apartment building. I knew what this entailed, and I agreed to go. I’d never had a one-night-stand before, and felt emboldened by the liquor, excited at the prospect of adventure — or something resembling adventure.

On the rooftop’s outdoor furniture, we made out. I was crushed under him, sinking further into the couch cushions and trying to think of a way to get out of this without offending him. I didn’t like the way he tasted, liquor-coated tongue jabbing in my mouth. He stuck his hand under my lacy bra, fondling a nipple and disregarding the other people nearby. I wondered if they could see what we were doing in the firelight.

It was bone-chillingly cold. The roof provided us no shield from the wind, and I was still a long walk and a train ride away from home. I decided to seek warmth in his apartment. Drunkenly fading in and out of consciousness, we had sex four times that night. Both of us had trouble staying asleep — one of us in a strange place, the other with a stranger in their bed.

At one point in the night, he began kissing every inch of my back. I knew he didn’t love me; and I, him. But the act bordered on worship. It took intention, devotion, patience, care. He spent an eternity completing this endeavor, drenching me in affection.

Hours later, sleeping and waking intermittently, he found me studying his face. “Your eyes are so… warm,” he confessed, pleasantly surprised. I couldn’t stop smiling.

I can only hypothesize now, but I think the liquor created a semblance of romance. Dilated pupils, jokes funnier than they should be, that feeling of heat pervasive in my body — but was it from the bottle or the man?

We began to silently reserve every weekend for each other, often meeting at seedy bars and always abiding by the unspoken rule of ending the night at his place. We played house. He’d get me drunk, and I’d let him fuck me. He was good at it, but never good enough to make me finish.

He was older than me, far more familiar with the city’s nightlife, and had obtained many more notches in his bedpost. I felt like a foolish child in my inexperience, next to him.

Neither of us ever asked, “what are we?” We existed in the liminal space between anonymity and love. A canyon of a space.

I liked staying the night, being pressed up against him, stroking his coarse hair, his downturned eyebrows, his bristly stubble. I’ve always had too much love to give and nowhere to put it. It was a relief to have someone to direct these feelings at; someone to adore.

***

Several weeks had passed in a drunken blur, and a routine began to take shape. We’d had anal sex the night before — raw, because he couldn’t stay hard with a condom on. Inebriated and exhausted, we simply wiped off and went to sleep without showering. Sleeping nude, I woke to find him spooning me in a fog, still partially drunk from the night before. I could’ve been asleep for all he knew.

Yet he put his dick, raw, as always, inside of me.

And I lay there, frozen. How could I get him to stop without escalating things? I was in his apartment, after all. Do I wait for it to be over, or say something? What can I say?

Scenes of lovers’ quarrels gone awry from documentaries and news broadcasts flashed in my mind like frames in a silent film reel. Once before, he’d already choked me so hard during the act that I thought, for a moment, I might die.

A wave of cold dread washed over me, at being raped, but especially at being raped now. I knew this would culminate in a urinary tract infection; anal to vaginal, it was all but guaranteed. Memories of infections past flooded my mind as I recalled the burning pain, the blood, the unbearable discomfort. Instead of facing the present moment, I looked to the past and to the future: an act of dissociation.

After too much deliberation, I told him to stop, that it hurt. He did. He couldn’t finish, anyway, and grew soft soon after.

“I probably should’ve asked for consent,” he said, laughing it off. An afterthought.

On reflection, no words are sufficient to describe how this offhand comment makes me feel. But at the time, I pacified myself, thinking: he knows what he did wrong, so surely he can’t be a bad guy. Surely, he’s not a rapist. He was just eager. He just couldn’t contain himself, couldn’t resist his attraction to me. I twisted it to flatter myself, to subdue my discomfort, to minimize the severity. This way, I wouldn’t have to face it. I could continue to stare at that blank wall, long after I left his bed.

But doesn’t his knowing that it was wrong make the act even worse?

***

I pushed it out of my mind, went to the pharmacy, and bought antibiotics for the UTI that I knew was impending. Like clockwork, the telltale symptoms washed over me. That, combined with rough anal and vaginal sex, caused me to bleed from both places. A violent reminder tearing through my memory, in the privacy of my own bathroom.

The man who raped me is the same man who kissed every inch of my back, washed my hair, and peeled oranges for me when I came down with a cold. Thus, I endure cognitive dissonance.

Every time I’ve had sex since being raped, I’ve bled: my body’s own kind of poetry.

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Over the holiday season, I was a temp at Barnes & Noble. (Which means I bought all of this in three months.) The beautiful thing about working there was the employee discount: 50% off books and cafe items. Naturally, I took full advantage, practically cycling my paycheck back through the business every week.

Here lies everything that I was unable to exercise self-restraint on.

Freebies

First and foremost, these are the freebies. The employees get access to new releases, uncorrected proofs, advanced reader copies, et cetera. I didn’t want to be too greedy, and there were a lot of books that weren’t my cup of tea, so I only took five.

Nonfiction

Ironically, I originally bought The Feminine Mystique as a gag gift for a friend who requested feminist literature for a white elephant gift exchange, but started reading it and decided to keep it.

I’ve read excerpts from Against Interpretation and wanted a copy for myself, thought I ought to try Didion, and am very interested in the debate that Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma delves into: can you separate the art from the artist?

Nonfiction, cont.

If there’s one thing I love to learn about, it’s other writers. My nosy ass also loves reading other people’s journals, hence the Plath. Didion & Babitz explores an infamous dynamic between two female writers that I’ve heard so much about. Also — I only connected the dots after I bought it — but the author Lili Anolik hosts a great podcast called Once Upon A Time… At Bennington College. Borges’ nonfiction intrigued me for the variety of content (and the sheer size of it).

Short Story Collections

I fell in love with Gaitskill after Bad Behavior, and was intrigued by the premise of The Devil’s Treasure. Joyce Carol Oates earned a special place in my heart after I read Beasts and a few of her other short stories. Rejection reminded me a lot of Bad Behavior, which is what piqued my interest.

Miscellaneous Fiction

Archipelago intrigued me for the linguistic element, and Katabasis was something I began reading on the clock during slow closing shifts. I don’t usually go for fantasy, but thought I ought to branch out. I was also interested in the elements of classic literature involved in the world-building.

Horror

What Moves the Dead is a retelling of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. I’ve been meaning to try more retellings of classics. Blood on Her Tongue was a random purchase; I was drawn to the cover and the gothic elements, plus a coworker recommended the author to me. I thought: what the hell, why not.

The Campus Novel

This sub-genre holds a special place in my heart. I somehow ended up with two copies of The Idiot, so I’m unsure of what to do with the second one. Also, this cover of Stoner is gorgeous.

Classics

Top two are Russian, bottom left is American, bottom right is English. These are just a few of the classics I’ve been intending to read, drowning in the ocean of a TBR list I’ve compiled.

I go fucking crazy for a book around 100-200 pages. I’d heard so much about The Stranger I had to give it a shot, and The Myth of Sisyphus is what my existential ass has been turning to when my mental health gets particularly bad. Surprisingly, it helps.

That’s it! I hope you enjoyed seeing a glimpse into my book-buying habits, and please let me know which one you recommend I read next.

We find ourselves back again for the latest installment of Memento Mori. Though I am posting my announcement rather late, it shouldn’t be too difficult to finish March’s book by month’s end. About two hundred pages — five hours, give or take — Less Than Zero is Bret Easton Ellis’ debut novel, inspired by people and events from his real life. It was written and published while Ellis was in college, and surrounds the events of the Winter break when he went home to Southern California for a few weeks after his first term at Bennington College.

This book is an amalgamation of stereotypes: quintessential Californianism, partying teenagers, Hollywood, and the rich. It serves as an unflinching critique of both L.A. culture and the youth of the 1980s — by one of their own. Who better to speak on the subject?

It was published by Simon & Schuster in 1985, and was loosely adapted into a film a mere two years later (with a star-studded cast of Robert Downey Jr., James Spader, and Andrew McCarthy, to name a few).

This book explores violence, hedonism, nihilism, substance abuse, materialism, and so much more. I highly recommend the audiobook narrated by Christian Rummel. His voice is so similar to Ellis’ that I thought it was him, at first. I’m sure this was by design — any less Californian of an accent would’ve broken the reader’s immersion.

This book was very different from my usual tastes in some ways, but perfectly aligned with it in others. It served as a nice palette cleanser in-between my denser books, and while it was still as sick and twisted as my usual reads, it was also entertaining and indulgent.

I hope you all enjoy reading Less Than Zero, or at least reading my thoughts on it.

Until next time,

Emm

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cobblestone facades and a crackling fireplace gave the impression that one had stepped right into Little Italy in this obscure eatery, though its rustic charm didn’t translate to the menu. Tiny servings juxtaposed substantial prices, with every option centering around something exotic – delicacies with octopus, lemon, caviar and oysters drenched in alfredo was a theme throughout the various entrees, but I just wanted something simple.

My boyfriend Levi and all of his friends double-dipped torn pieces of bread into the dish of oil and vinegar that served as a centerpiece, and while it was delicious, my disgust at the sight of their actions was enough to stave off my appetite. Four of the others around this table were in relationships, and at least one was an infamous philanderer — God only knows where those mouths have been.

Adjusting my sheer white blouse, I felt underdressed. This top cost me ten dollars, while I’m sure the evening gowns and tuxedos around this table had risen to triple – if not quadruple – digits. Overlapping conversations muffled the vacant building, which had somehow been reserved even after their closing time via a handful of cash slipped from Ivan’s mother Svetlana to the restaurant’s owner. The uniformed waitstaff loitered awkwardly in the back corner, whispering amongst themselves and watching for signs that we were ready to order.

Nestled between these various, seemingly absorbing conversations, I was able to blend in. Ivan’s father was discussing his time with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, citing, “It doesn’t matter how much your apartment costs. In New York, you’re going to have rats.”

That spurned a conversation between him and Ivan’s friends, in which they discussed all of the different countries they’d traveled to or lived in, insulting each place to amplify their pretentious image. Austria, Egypt, France, China. I shrunk down in my chair, feeling wildly uncultured amongst these self-proclaimed cosmopolitans.

Midway through the evening, a thick Russian accent stood out amongst the other voices.

“And you, I don’t know you. What’s your name?” I turned to see that Svetlana was addressing me. The dreaded and inevitable interrogation was beginning. “Oh,” I said quietly. “My name’s Lana.”

“Hannah?” She asked from across the table, eliciting snickers from the boys. I simply confirmed, either too polite or too nervous to correct her. What did it matter? I was never going to see her again.

“You go to school here, yes?” Svetlana continued.

“No, I flew in from Montana.” I gave a small, meek smile, but it did nothing to deter the sudden hostility infused into her barrage of questions.

“Why?” She demanded, her tone biting.

After a panicked wracking of my brain, it dawned on me how this must look: she was under the impression that I had flown in specifically for her son’s recital. Everyone else had: his teachers, parents and even some of his peers. Most of them were Slavic, including his ancient instructor who reminded me of Gorbachev, and a blonde waif who was rumored to be Ivan’s crush. Svetlana must have assumed that he and I were an item, hence her stepping into the role of the stereotypical, hostile mother-in-law. Cautiously, I responded, “To… see Levi,” turning towards him to verify. He said nothing.

Svetlana softened, but continued her cross-examination. “I see… And where do you go to school?” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask this. Everyone here attended a proper and highly-rated university, some even having studied at multiple. But I was the outlier, forced to alienate myself further with my answer: “I go to a community college back home in Montana.”

Throughout the evening, there were usually several conversations happening simultaneously throughout the group, but now, everyone had fallen silent, exacerbating the pressure. Either their silence was due to the respect and fear Svetlana invoked — the tough matriarch who had survived Soviet Russia — or their curiosity over me, the outsider who seemingly appeared out of thin air.

“And what instrument do you play?” Yet another question that I hoped I wouldn’t be asked, but there was no way around it. I couldn’t lie and say that I play the piano, because they’d undoubtedly question me about who my teacher is or what school I learned it at, and I’d be stuck humiliating myself even further by admitting that my family can’t afford lessons. Meanwhile, Ivan’s parents bought him a $70,000 violin. Not to mention that the only thing I can play on the piano is Chopsticks, so if they put me on the spot and asked me to perform on one of the countless baby grands in The Institute of Music while I loitered during Levi’s practice, my lie would be exposed.

“Oh, I don’t play anything,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. A strained silence followed. Tension emanated from every single one of them, since they were all professionally-trained musicians, and musical performance consumed their lives. Levi and all of his friends had begun playing instruments as soon as they were old enough to hold them. They came from long lines of musicians, pressured into the family business, attempting to step out of their older siblings’ shadows with incessant practice: twelve hours a day, six days a week. These people probably couldn’t fathom a life without performance, and it showed in every peacocking interaction they had.

Feeling the need to improve my image in front of his friends, Levi suddenly informed the group, “She did ballet.” Ballet has a strong connection to classical music, so I’m sure he thought it would help my case. Surprisingly, philanderer perked up at this new information. “Oh?!” He exclaimed, looking at me with wide eyes. I don’t know if he was feigning interest to bring attention back to himself, was genuinely interested, or if his notoriously dirty mind went straight to the idea of a ballerina’s flexibility. But what Levi didn’t tell them was that I only did it for two years, failing even to make it en pointe.

Regardless, this was the first time anyone aside from Levi had been even remotely impressed with me, so I hoped to take advantage of the opportunity and elaborate on it. But I didn’t get the chance to, because Levi started to banter with him, mocking him for his “oh”, which quickly devolved into the two of them impersonating French accents. Though I wanted to be able to gain their respect, I was grateful that the subject had been changed, and that the former conversations had picked up again, permeating the otherwise empty restaurant.

Well, I had become vaguely aware of Him in my peripheral vision several minutes prior, as He relentlessly stared at me from across the dining hall while I ate my supper. He was dressed shabbily with a stuffed hiker’s backpack, wearing dark sunglasses despite being indoors and the sun having already set. He was not eating anything, did not look away when I caught His gaze, and did not make any effort to pretend to busy Himself once I noticed His eyes on me. This unnerved me, as it would anyone, but when I finished eating He had disappeared. I tried to push it out of my mind — after all, I’d had many similar experiences with men before.

I had a final paper to finish, and subsequently got in line for a cup of coffee to keep me alert enough to do so. The cafe inside of the dining hall was a popular spot for impulsive purchases, one that I frequented for its supply from a local bakery and its drinks which I could spend my dining credits on — “not real money”, as my friends and I claimed. It was a particularly busy evening since they had just unveiled some new product (neopolitan milkshakes) which everyone and their social circle wanted to try. After a few minutes, I noticed that The Man who had been staring at me earlier had resurfaced and was now in line behind me. There was a buffer of two or three blissfully unaware teenage girls between us, which I was grateful for. Again, I tried to justify His presence: maybe it’s a coincidence.

After I ordered, I squeezed in with the others waiting for their drinks near the sitting area. I’m not sure if He even ordered anything, but He did the same. I noticed a crewcut police officer having an animated conversation with a man too old to be a student. The officer quickly moved to the bar, asking the barista to bring him the manager. A piece of paper passed between them. Their faces were gravely serious as they spoke, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the bustle of the crowd.

It wasn’t long after that the crewcut officer and two or three others surrounded The Man who had been watching me. They had a terse, serious conversation which I tried desperately to overhear, but it was to no avail. It was less so a conversation and more so an interrogation, since He wouldn’t speak; His mouth a firm line, face blank as a sheet of paper. Even if I couldn’t make out what they were saying, I could still read lips. They showed Him the paper, which I could now see was a flier complete with a photo and descriptors in bold black letters. The surrounding students were finally beginning to notice that something was going on, quieting down and keeping their distance. Inching closer, I could catch only a few words at a time, but the most jarring of these was: “You have a lifetime ban from the University of Washington.”

My mind was racing. What could He have done to warrant a lifetime ban? Had He stalked other girls? Had He hurt someone? Beat? Raped? Stabbed? Was He planning to do something to this effect to me?

The policemen asked Him to leave, but He refused, stiff-bodied and tight-lipped. An officer got on either side of Him, each taking an arm and dragging His limp body through the double doors. They continued their interrogation outside, but the floor-to-ceiling windows offered Him — and me — little privacy. He was clearly uncommunicative with the officers, looking away like a scolded dog. As the situation devolved, I tried not to gawk, but the mixture of morbid fascination and the desire for an understanding forced me to keep looking back. Every time I did, I’d reaffirm that He was still staring straight at me, expressionless behind His nebulous black glasses. I tried to engrave His appearance into my mind, in case I needed to give it to a police officer in a future incident report: lean, pale, around my age, sparse mustache, trucker’s hat and sunglasses, pots and pans hanging off of His tall backpack, a few inches taller than me, East Asian.

After a few minutes of unsuccessful attempts at interrogation on the policemen’s end, He took out a phone and began taking photos through the glass, in my direction. Quickly turning around so as not to capture my face, I felt a cold dread run down my spine. What was He doing? Why did He want to keep a photo of me — or anyone else in this room? Was He going to use it to track me down again? To identify me before a premeditated attack? Was He going to use it for some other nefarious purpose, alone in His bedroom, hunched over and sweating?

It felt to me like He was doing this as a power play, gawking openly at the bystanders in the way that they were gawking at Him. But it didn’t do anything to deter the others around me, either clueless or careless, shielded behind their friends. I still had yet to receive my cup of coffee, but at this point, I didn’t care. However, to get back to my dorm room meant a walk alone in the dark, fifteen yards from where He was standing. I didn’t want Him to see which building I went in, or worse, to follow me right then and there. I didn’t know how much further His brazen attitude could extend. Walking to the other end of the dining hall, I moved out of His line of sight. I didn’t want to be looked at anymore. I felt sick and dirty, and began scrutinizing myself, wondering if I’d done something to invite His attention. I was wearing a pilled grey sweater, had on no makeup, and kept to myself, saying nothing all evening but my order and a small “thank you” to the waitstaff. I had done nothing to entice Him, but kept turning over the events of the evening in my mind, wondering what I could have done differently.

I walked back for an update on the situation, but He had disappeared once more. The policemen remained outside, their bulky frames talking in a small, huddled circle. The absence of His presence put me into even more of a frenzy than the alternative, because now, He could be anywhere. From where He’d been interrogated, the only way to get off campus was to go past my dormitory building. I wracked my brain for anyone I could call to come walk with me, anyone who cared enough to do so, who might grant me some small sense of safety, but none came to mind. I’d only been at this college for a few months, and didn’t yet know anyone well enough for that. I paced the foyer — still lacking my coffee — and waited, hoping that the more time had passed, perhaps He’d get tired of waiting and leave. That is, if He was even waiting at all. By this point, it had become a mental battle over what He may or may not be planning, and where He may or may not be.

Eventually, the crowds at the cafe dissipated, and I approached the bar. It had been over an hour, and I knew that they had misplaced my order in all the excitement. I thought: after everything that’s happened tonight, I’m not going to walk away without at least a cup of coffee to show for it. Hesitantly, I told the barista behind the counter what I’d ordered, and she apologized, seeming relieved that there was an explanation for why I’d been pacing by her place of work for the past ninety minutes. We all were on edge after what we’d witnessed.

Near closing time, I reluctantly walked home. Sticking close by a random group of friends, I thought of the old adage, “strength in numbers.” Though The Man had been rail-thin, He was taller than me, and it was impossible to tell if I would be able to beat Him in a physical altercation or not. These are the things you have to think about as a woman.

Once home, I still had to sit down and focus on finishing my final paper. Miraculously, I did, and then I told my frantic sister about what had happened, asking if I could stay with her for the next couple of days. I only had one more test before the quarter was over, and then I could return home out-of-state for Spring Break. I avoided campus during this time, always staying aware of my surroundings and walking with purpose. Spring Break came and went, with an odd wave of nostalgia turning into a dread of all the memories I’d pushed out of my mind coming rushing back upon the first day of a new quarter. I was glad to return to campus, seeing the trees in full-bloom and the crowds they drew, but still wary of my encounter with Him that night at the dining hall.

Several weeks passed before I saw Him again.

And then again, and again.

Banned from the campus but not the neighboring streets, I’d catch Him loitering where the university’s sidewalk bled into the city. Nothing occupied Him: no book, phone, or meal. He simply watched, omniscient.

Walking back to campus from the nearby shopping district, an inexplicable prickle on the back of my neck caused me to pause amongst the hydrangeas and glance behind me. There He was, not twenty feet away, now realizing He’d been caught and suddenly pretending to be busy Himself. He was a bad actor.

I gripped my pocket knife ‘til the grooves of its handle were pressed into my skin, the metal absorbing my heat.

Another time, I found myself in a hole-in-the-wall beauty supply store a few blocks from the hydrangeas. Upon turning around an endcap, there He was, feigning interest in various products to justify His presence. The knowledge that He was staking out a store with an almost entirely female customer base — undoubtedly lying in wait for His next victim — haunts me.

I wonder how many other girls he’s stalked.

When I was finally able to go back home for the Summer, granting me three months and two-hundred-and-fifty miles of distance, I was grateful for the providential escape.

After returning the following Autumn, still looking over my shoulder, I didn’t see Him. But I’ll never know if He saw me.

The overwhelmingly blue sky

is what I remember when I think of our

illegal rendezvous.

Gazing up through the trees

his face in my neck

indigo dusk blanketing my senses

fading out even his voice,

my pain,

our nerves.

Soaked tight curls

sharply cold against my hands.

Leaning against a foreign shoulder

hypnotized by the vacant lake.

The back of my car,

surrogate for a bed.

I struggled beneath

thankful it was brisk.

Burnt smell of the heater

dazed, balmy and worn.

Rain pouring ever-harder

later finding I’d bled.

I feel that there is a lot more to the dark than there is to the light. With darker matters, you’re freer to play with allusions, allegories, analogies. You can see no bounds — whereas with the light, the harsh lines where you can explore no further are in plain view. You’re forced to create a happy ending, no matter the cost — and the cost is often complexity.

But is it wrong to let myself stew in misery, to ruminate in my depressive episodes, for the sake of my art? Is it a toxic trope that an artist, a writer, must be mentally ill to create something of substance? Or is there some weight to it?

No one would want to admit it, if that were the case. But it begs the question of what is honest and what is ethical.

If the answer were that being miserable does create great art, no one would want to say that. No one would want to be the reason for someone else’s misery. We all know what happens when misery reaches boiling point.

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Perhaps it’s the placebo effect in my case. Perhaps I can create art I’m proud of when I’m happy. But if the past is any indicator of the future, that’s not true.

When I’m happy, I’m distracted. With friends, family, loved ones. And it’s a beautiful thing, a necessary thing. A necessary respite from the lulls in my mood. However, I get next to no writing done in times like these.

One caveat to this that I will add is that when I’m in love — or something like it — I typically become very creative. I think that this is due simply to the intensity of my emotions. For me, the highs are higher and the lows are lower: peaks and valleys.

(Or at least, that’s how it feels. That, too, might just be another symptom of Major Depressive Disorder. When you’re used to extreme lows, a blip of joy can feel like euphoria.)

Perhaps I’m just trying to logicize my emotions. It would be terrible to admit that I sometimes have depressive episodes, and that there is no rhyme, reason, nor benefit to them. They just happen. If you know why something happens, you can stop it at the root, or at least justify its occurrence. But if you don’t know why, you’re powerless.

If I say that these episodes promote my creativity, now there’s a plus. Now there’s a bright side. An explanation. A benefit.

Is it a coincidence that some of the greatest creatives — specifically, writers — who have stood the test of time have been mentally ill?

Is there a part of me that’s letting myself stew in my misery, or am I unduly blaming myself for something that’s out of my control?

We exchanged poetry — verse for verse, line for line, striking deals and counteroffers.

I wondered if he’d written any about me. I certainly had about him.

We opened ourselves up to each other, exposing veins of vulnerability but never our bodies.

But that’s a deeper level of intimacy: letting someone in below the surface, beneath the flesh.

Exploring the territory to the depths and back, leaving no stone unturned. I could have told him anything.

Quickly, we bonded like grapes on the vine, growing tighter together each day.

Ours was a love that was pure, untainted. Barely touching, never kissing. Acts of service, money well-spent, midnight walks, a coyote’s crossing.

Each other’s endless servant; one a tough front for sensitivity and the other a brave romantic.

Until one day, too much time had passed. Like grapes on the vine, what was once sweet had turned to rot. Indecision and inaction spoiled the flavor.

Now, the seasons change. Now, I’m reminded of what used to be. It’s a liminal season once more, which imbues me with the hope that change can occur; the reminder that grapes are perennials.

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Like grapes on the vine

Growing closer together

You and I are bunched

We develop in tandem

Stemmed from the same branch

Yet fruit is fleeting

Someday we will fall and rot

So treasure this time

I will think of you always

Even if separated

If the birds scavenge

If I rot first and leave you

God forbid you do

I will always remember

Recalling sweet youth

Nostalgia of memory

For reference, I only applied to one MFA program in creative writing: prose. Very quickly, I realized that I was not at all prepared, but I wanted to at least try. I don’t regret doing so; it’s taught me a lot about myself and has certainly helped me improve as a writer. I intended to apply for multiple programs, but realized that it would probably be futile, and that I should improve my odds and apply for the ultra-competitive ones next application cycle. I did ultimately apply for two other programs in Library and Information Science. (One rejected me, the other hasn’t sent out a decision letter yet.)

Also: I have not heard back yet from the one MFA program I applied to, but I don’t expect to be let in. (Acceptance rate: <5%.) Most grad students are older than me, have more experience, publications to their name, and, quite frankly, better writing samples. But getting in would be a lifeboat for me in this dark time. It would help to give me a sense of stability and purpose. It would give me experience, connections, feedback, and opportunities to improve my craft. It could qualify me to teach writing at the university level. I want nothing more than to be accepted, but one must prepare themselves for the most-likely outcome. And if I do get rejected, then that will simply give me more time to improve myself as a candidate. I am determined to believe that everything will work out for the best.

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November 6, 2025:

It can be sobering to write a new work of fiction, because there’s so much to explore and no invested emotional interest. With older works that I’ve been ruminating on for years and years, I think: this is the way it must be. I cannot change it. I cannot mold it like clay. This story chose me to tell it.

Sometimes these stories feel more like their own beings than works created by me. They’re supposed to go a certain way. But with the new stuff, I can take it in any direction I want, while it’s still pliable.

December 3, 2025:

I’m not in the habit of showing anyone my writing. I’m terrified of the effect it would have on my self-esteem if I were rejected. My writing is sacred to me. I don’t want anything to deter me from pursuing it. Applying for grad school has stirred up so much more than I thought it would. I’m forced to face questions of my self-worth, my skill, my knowledge, my ability… I’m forced to open myself up to scrutinization, both within and outside of myself. It’s daunting, to say the least. But I know that it’s necessary for growth.

December 6, 2025:

Writing fiction is such a strange practice. There exists a world of its own in my mind and my mind only. Trying to share it with others is like trying to paint a fraudulent Rothko — I’m trying to do it justice, to accurately convey it, to retain its integrity. But I often wonder how much of my vision is lost in translation. I wonder what the margin of error is. I suppose all I can do is try to communicate my stories to the best of my ability, and trust in my ability as a writer.

***

What you read as a writer invariably shapes the way in which you write. I can feel it when i pick up a new book, by a new author: either it’s someone I end up aspiring to write like, or it shows me what not to do. Both of these types of books are important for writers. In some events, the bad ones can shine light onto your own bad habits or serve as necessary reminders of the flaws which you succumb to.

However, despite the silver lining I’ve found in reading bad books, they’re still dangerous.

It’s natural to pick up the mannerisms and speech patterns of those you spend the most time listening to, whether that be your friends or Donna Tartt through Audible. This doesn’t just apply to listening, but reading as well. I’ve found myself beginning to think in the style of an author whom I’ve feverishly read over the past few hours. And thus, being careful about what you read is incredibly important for a writer. Of course this can apply to anyone, but when honing your style and your voice, it’s of the utmost importance to deploy caution.

Because of this, I’ve felt torn about putting down books part-way through. There are classics I want to check off my bucket list, but I can feel that it isn’t good for me to be spending hours and hours consuming this prose and this content.

I suppose I’m especially sensitive to what I’m reading and how it’s affecting my writing now more than ever because I’m still working on the creative writing sample for my application to pursue an MFA. I have very little time to ensure that I’m communicating my voice properly and to the best of my ability. Perhaps someday in the future I’ll be more open to reading books that aren’t aligned with my own writing style, when the stakes aren’t as high.

Nevertheless, it’s important for writers to be aware of the content they consume and how it affects their own work, at any stage in their lives and careers.

December 10, 2025:

Being rejected from a degree in computer science or chemistry would be one thing — it would mean my grades weren’t high enough, my letters of recommendation weren’t personal enough, or I didn’t have enough publications to my name.

But being rejected from a writing program is different; it’s much more personal. The admissions committees aren’t judging you from afar, based on numbers or stats; they’re judging your heart and soul, your intellect, how cultured you are, how much potential you have.

If i get rejected from the MFA programs I’m applying to, it will be an attack on my life’s work. My writing is probably the thing that I am the most proud of. I know that I have potential. I know that my work is good, that it’s special. I trust in myself. I may not be as intelligent or cultured or knowledgeable as I aspire to be, but after all, i am only twenty-two. I hold myself to very high standards.

But if these eligible individuals decide that it isn’t enough, what then? Will it affect my confidence in my abilities, like Hannah from Girls in season five? I’m scared of the effect it will have on me.

But without putting myself out there, there won’t be an opportunity for me to succeed. Logically, I know this. It’s easy to logicize; safe. But the reality of emotion is so much more complex than that.

December 23, 2025:

I feel like a fraud and a failure without even having tried. There’s no way that I can condense my best writing into a creative writing sample for my MFA applications. There’s no way I can whip it out of thin air — from fragments in my mind to the vision I’ve laid out — coherently, lyrically, in a way that communicates my meaning as intended.

December 29, 2025:

• Everything I did for my MFA application process:

  • Read authors and work which I aspire to emulate

    • Which meant putting limits on my reading habits…

    • Annotated; re-read what I annotated

  • Took advice from famous authors

    • Put my work away for a time and came back to it with (somewhat) fresh eyes

December 31, 2025:

I wanted to quit several times.

January 2, 2026:

I felt so much stress during the final moments that it made me nauseous.

However, I will admit that in reading and rereading so much of my work from the past couple of months and years has made me realize just how much this process helped me to improve. I had to put myself under a magnifying glass. I had to do the very best that I could. I had a limited amount of time to improve as much as possible.

And I also had to believe in myself. I didn’t expect this process to be so transformative, powerful, or emotional for me, and yet it was.

I previously scoffed at those who spoke of how rough this process is. I thought, “how different can it be from other college applications?” But opening yourself up to criticism creatively is very different from presenting yourself as a series of numbers — test scores, gpa, counted publications, months or years of experience. The MFA process is about digging deep, forcing yourself to do the best that you can, fighting self-doubt, debating philosophical dilemmas you didn’t even know you had.

This was a life-changing experience for me, and though it was very difficult, I know that comfort is the death of progress. This pushed me out of my comfort zone and forced me to show up for myself, and I am so glad that I did it.

Is the program I applied to incredibly prestigious? Yes. Am I likely to be accepted? No. But did I improve as a writer and prove to myself that I can do anything I set my mind to? Absolutely.

January 3, 2026

I submitted my MFA application on New Year’s Day, after several grueling months. It was a very important experience for me. Finally finishing the process was cathartic — I’d done my absolute best, worked hard, and put myself out there creatively in a way I never have before. During this process, I had to put myself under a microscope. I had to discover and name my niche. I had to put together the pieces of my life as both a reader and a writer, to recognize the recurring themes of what I’m drawn to, and why.

I used to think I was undefinable. I’m sure everyone would like to think of themselves as indescribably unique. But I — as a writer, anyway — have found myself (or, more of myself) through this process.

January 4, 2026:

I wonder: did my writing improve because I was doing it so often, and putting so much pressure on it to be perfect? Or because I was very restrictive about the kind of content that I consumed?

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Let me know your thoughts in the comments, whether you relate, disagree, have questions, comments, or anecdotes. I look forward to receiving my decision letter and letting you all know the result, as well as improving on my writing journey — whether that be at a university or not.

Until next time,

Emm

Nothing.

Of those, I’ve only landed a handful of interviews, and even fewer offers. I graduated in August, but began the job search before then, to no avail. (For reference, I got a bachelor’s degree from a top university, and I currently live near the major city where it sits.) I didn’t land anything until the end of August, and that was a barista position at a cafe that hired me on the spot, then promptly forgot they did so, subsequently never scheduling me a single time over the next three months. It was, by far, the strangest employment experience I’ve ever had. During the time that I was “employed” there, I quickly realized it was a shitshow and began applying for other positions again, but didn’t quit on the off-chance that they end up giving me some hours after all. They never did.

When I moved to another state in mid-October, I tried to tide myself over with an attempt at Doordashing, but ended up spending more time and energy on gas than it was worth, begging for scraps of $1 tips.

I got hired in early November at another cafe within a bookstore, but it was only temporary. The hiring manager told me that they were looking to add more permanent members to their team, and that the temps often stayed on, dangling this information over my nose like a carrot on a string. She also told me that they could cross-train me to become a bookseller, which is something I would have preferred to do. And when a bookseller position opened up at another location a day or two after they’d hired me — before I’d even had any training — they shot me in the foot and blocked me from even interviewing for it. This left a bad taste in my mouth, but I needed to make rent, so I was stuck with it.

I worked sporadically there, never knowing if I was going to have eight hours in any given week or forty. I took full advantage of the employee discount, but also felt ashamed of being a college graduate and ending up in an entry-level position in which they don’t even require a high school diploma. I fulfilled the stereotype of the humanities major who ends up as a barista. This was never my plan. But I doubt it’s ever anyone’s plan.

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Though this work was not aligned with my long-term goals in the slightest, I wanted to be offered a permanent position there for the stability it could offer me. I went above and beyond, never slacking, always finding some way to keep busy, cleaning until the place sparkled. When two positions opened up towards the end of my time there, a few things happened that made me feel as though they didn’t want me to apply for them. But I did anyway. And they didn’t choose me. They didn’t even give me an interview. Instead, my manager told me mid-shift that they “went with another candidate”, and I had to work the rest of the day holding back tears, wondering what was wrong with me. You’d think they’d want to keep the person who’s tried and true — who’s already trained — but no, I guess upper management disliked me or corporate wanted to hire someone with “more experience.” That’s always what it is, isn’t it? And yet you can never gain more experience if no one will let you into a position to do so. But you can’t land those positions because you don’t have enough experience. It’s a vicious cycle.

So, here I am, six-months post-graduation, and all I have is three months of temp experience, one rejection letter from grad school, next to nothing left in my savings, and a stomach ulcer from the stress.

This is the reality of recent graduates, or really anyone on the job search. Endlessly trying while getting rejected left and right. Failing 99% of the time. Being offered scraps that you are far too overqualified for, yet being excited anyway because at least it’s something. Praying (whether you’re religious or not) that nothing costly happens to you, your car, or your pets anytime soon, because you can barely make ends meet. Surviving off of fast food because it’s all you can afford. Saying goodbye to your dignity, pride, and standards — just to get by. Feeling stagnant because you can barely land anything at all, let alone something aligned with your goals. And the vicious cycle of having hardly anything to show for yourself, and subsequently being passed up for positions you actually are passionate about.

In other news, I — and many others in the same boat — have resorted to making our own opportunities for ourselves. Our own game studios, self-publishing our own writing, using social media to get our work out there. In this day and age, we have to be entrepreneurial, which is a blessing and a curse.

(I’ll leave you on a positive note: I was offered a random, entry-level, part-time, bullshit gig, but they won’t let me start ‘til month’s end. So until then, I’m taking this time to focus on my writing as much as is humanly possible.)

Until next time,

Emm

This collection of short stories was Gaitskill’s debut, and made ripples in the literary community ever since it’s publication in the ‘80s by a subsidiary of Simon and Schuster. You likely know it as the origin of the story that Secretary (2002) is based off of. Interestingly enough, I came to both Secretary and Bad Behavior independently, only discovering their connection after I’d seen the movie and bought the book. (I suppose this is telling of the kinds of themes I’m drawn towards.)

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Composed of nine stories, the major themes are sex, kink, infidelity, and mental illness, but the final story, Heaven, was very different from the rest. Though some of these characters are deeply disturbing, you can’t help but keep going. Even if it’s enough to make you put the book down at times, you’ll find yourself haunted by what you read, wondering what happens next. I found very similar archetypes from chapter to chapter: the reserved freak, the sexually dominant yet aloof man, the cheater who has respect for their spouse but is not sexually satisfied by them. So many of the stories contain a woman of the same vein that I’ve developed a theory that Gaitskill wrote herself into the majority of them. I noted that she dedicated it to her sisters, which made me wonder if some of these stories are also taken from experiences that her sisters have had. Gaitskill has admitted to pulling from real life for Bad Behavior, but I need to do more research into how much she’s spoken on this matter.

These stories don’t just delve into sexual relationships, they also get into the complexities of platonic female friendships. So many of these circumstances are relatable on an emotional level, even if you’ve never endured them verbatim. I also particularly enjoyed that some of these stories are from the perspective of a man, or from the perspective of the person causing harm to someone else. Strangely, you can almost empathize with them at times, even if you’re nothing like them. It was a very interesting study on perspective and what it means to be human, flaws and all.

I’d also like to apologize. I intended to do big, in-depth, academic research papers on each book we cover in this club, but I don’t have the energy for a project of that magnitude right now. I put so much pressure on myself to make each essay perfect that it froze me in place, making me feel that every effort was insufficient. I’m still interested in publishing pieces on the last few books we’ve read in Memento Mori — and the ones to come — but I need to take it down a notch and make it more of a casual conversation than a speech.

I really loved this book. It was so fascinating to read about these kinds of characters: flawed, disturbed, raw, honest. Gaitskill is so adept at unexpected analogies and using unorthodox examples to paint a picture for her readers. I highly recommend you take a little time to try reading it (it’s around two-hundred pages). The first story, Daisy’s Valentine, was one I read when I first got the book last Summer, and it rattled around in my head for months and months. I eventually picked it up again in Winter and quickly finished the rest. If nothing else, I implore you to read that first story, even just for the sake of Valentine’s Day.

Until next time,

Emm

The perfectionist will never be satisfied with their work because it will never reach the standards they set for themselves.

The perfectionist is perpetually disappointed in themselves. They cannot accept praise. They lack confidence in their abilities. And when their work inevitably and naturally plateaus instead of skyrockets, they are upset while still unsurprised.

“I have no one to blame but myself.” This mentality puts them in a state of desiring control. Only I can even attempt to reach the standards I set, because I wouldn’t dare impose them on anyone else. It is me who must do well. I wouldn’t treat anyone else this poorly.

Perfectionism is not something to be envied. It is not a healthy ambition, an admirable drive, or a commendable trait. It is a poison that pulses through one’s thoughts, infecting their work, their play, and their self-image.

A perfectionist is not someone who sees their work as perfect. They see every flaw, every crack, and every regret magnified. It overwhelms the senses, seeming not to balance out what few things they feel a hint of pride over, but instead, to bury it tenfold.

Every compliment received feels disingenuous. The perfectionist pries and prods those around them to admit criticism, hoping in vain that learning of such critiques will help them finally achieve flawlessness.

The mind of the perfectionist feels diseased; incurable. Even a constant stream of patient quotes from respectable figures isn’t enough to satiate the perfectionist for long.

They work endlessly, with seemingly nothing to show for it. Nothing of theirs is good enough to be displayed for anyone to see. They feel like a failure, and it discourages them from producing any work at all: a vicious cycle.

When at last something to be proud of is created, there is an anxiety surrounding it. This can’t be wasted, it must be used wisely. And yet, an even more potent anxiety in the worry that what few things they are proud of are, in fact, still not enough.

Until next time,

Emm

I’m pleased to announce that The Secret History by Donna Tartt is Memento Mori’s January read. A bit of a doorstopper, this novel ranges from five hundred to six hundred pages, depending on the edition. However, I find that the bone-chilling cold paired with holidays off provides more time than most other months to stay inside and curl up with a big book. (This was intended to be December’s read, but January works just fine, too. Applying for grad school put a huge wrench in my plans — which is a process that I will soon be posting about in-depth, as well.) This one in particular does an excellent job of depicting winter, from descriptions of their thick black overcoats and scarves to prose that makes you feel as though you’re right there with the characters, feeling the snow in your hair and the wind on your face.

I’m sure many of you have already read this book, and I look forward to talking to you about it. A fan favorite, this modern classic has made it into the hearts of so many people for a reason. Tartt’s prose is unlike anything I’ve ever read before — it’s no surprise that she takes so much time to write each book of hers, because what results is a masterpiece.

I just finished reading this book after spending six years on it. Yes, you read that write, six. I’ve had a complicated relationship with it, and am excited to delve into the analysis with you all — though it’s so huge and complex, it might be a bit of a challenge. Happy reading!

Sidebar: yes, I am still working on my post for November’s read, Beasts. It’s just such an important work to me that I feel no words of mine are adequate, as Gillian herself said. I’m doing my best to simplify it. I’m very near the end of my post on it, and will publish soon. I promise.

Until next time,

Emm

category #1: professional

• write and publish my first book

  • starting out strong with this one. it’s a big goal, but one i’ve been working towards for five years in one respect, and my whole life in another.

• start compiling nonfiction/essays to publish

  • this one is a bit different from my usual writing goals, but i’m excited to try something new. i’ve been dabbling in the journals, letters, and nonfiction of susan sontag, joan didion, sylvia plath, franz kafka, and jorge luis borges recently, and as someone who already publishes nonfiction on substack, it’s not all that dramatic of a pivot.

• read at least 1 book per month

  • this was a goal i set for 2025 too, but fell short of it with the pressure of my senior year of college, stepping into adulthood post-graduation, working full-time, my chaotic love life, and the grad school application cycle. but next year i won’t have the same busy schedule that i did this year. i know i can do it, i just need to develop more discipline. i decided to put this here instead of in the “personal” category because reading is sort-of homework for a writer; it’s important for my career.

• submit to at least 5 literary magazines

  • i want to get published. i want to put myself and my work out there.

• apply for at least 5 writing-related grants/competitions

• begin working at or volunteering at a library, bookstore, university, literary magazine, etc.

  • this may prove more difficult than some of the others, because it doesn’t necessarily boil down to my own drive or effort. i’ve been attempting to do this for years now and still have yet to succeed. but i really hope that this is the year i get to achieve this goal. (technically speaking, i do work at a bookstore now, but in the cafe, and it’s only a temporary position.)

category #2: personal

• curate my letterboxd, goodreads, and other social media profiles. also, start posting on tiktok

  • these are things i’ve been meaning to get around to for years, but they’ve been so low on my list of priorities that they have yet to be completed. it really wouldn’t take all that much time or energy. however, i am a perfectionist and am cautious about how i am perceived, especially through the lens of social media. i feel that one’s social media presence says a lot about them — especially in this generation.

• invest more time into creative outlets and hobbies

  • make more art. maybe learn needle felting so that i can make ornaments for my loved ones by next christmas. or learn to knit. maybe use cooking and baking from scratch as a creative outlet, testing out new recipes and flavor combinations.

• continue brushing up on my japanese

  • it’s one of the few things i obtained from my bachelor’s degree that is deemed truly unique or useful on a resume. let’s be real: our society right now does not value the arts and humanities — it values tech and science, because they’re more lucrative.

• begin casually studying latin and greek fundamentals

  • for a better understanding of the English language (and because i’m a linguistics nerd)

• perhaps return to studying korean and french

  • i’ve been getting into more french literature and philosophy, and have always been fascinated by it’s familiarity, considering so many of the loan words in english are from french.

  • korean is a beautiful language, too. though i am able to read and write hangeul, i wish i could do so a little bit faster, and i also wish that i had basic formalities memorized.

• exercise 5 days a week, or get 10,000 - 20,000 steps per day

  • i feel like i look the same as i have for years, but stepping on the scale recently made me hope it was broken. and this isn’t just about a number: i want to be healthier, to take care of myself, to release endorphins, to have a release from stress and tension, and to feel more confident in my skin. i want to be stronger and healthier. i’ve felt self-conscious for a long time, and want to take advantage of the fact that i am young and in good health, and thus am able to exercise. when i was younger, i only wanted to diet or exercise in extreme ways, which is why it never stuck. but in 2026, i want it to become a part of my routine. (i really hope i don’t end up becoming one of the countless people who tries to workout as part of their new year’s resolution and quits after a few days or weeks. i don’t want to be a stereotype.)

    • i also feel that i should get back into counting calories. this is hard for me, since i had an eating disorder once upon a time and the calorie counting is where the most toxicity stemmed from, but i want to get down to a healthier weight and this is the quickest and most efficient way to do that. i dislike diet/gym culture, but i know that i can find a way to engage in it in a way that suits me (listening to an audiobook on the treadmill, drinking jasmine tea, running in a haruki murakami kind of way).

category #3: continuing

• continue posting on substack

  • i know i’ve been an absentee author, but in 2026, i’ll get back to posting more regularly.

• continue keeping up with my book club

  • this is something i’ve always wanted to do, and i’m very excited to be at a point in my life now where i have the time for it!

• continue journaling

  • i love practicing my cursive, i love self-expression, i love my beautiful italian leather cavallini & co. journal, i love working through whatever is on my mind.

at the end of this year, i would like to check in with a follow-up post to discuss how many of these goals i ended up meeting, and making a similar post for 2027, too! (if i remember, of course.)

thank you all for reading, and please tag me if this has inspired you to share your own resolutions! i would love to hear about them.

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until next time,

emm

i have things stuffed in boxes or collecting dust on my desk that i’ve never wanted and never ended up using, and it saddens me. i feel guilty about being wasteful, and about getting rid of something that someone bought for me. i don’t know why i suffer from so much self-imposed guilt. it’s clear that these gift ideas were half-baked (sure i like tea, but never have i expressed an interest in raspberry arnold palmers, or anything of the sort).

i feel guilty about how little i know my loved ones, too. i remember seeing what i bought for my sister, left behind in her childhood bedroom after she moved in with her boyfriend. left amongst all of the garbage.

i’d like to think i know people well. i always win at personalized, inside-joke trivia. i make notes all year long regarding potential gift ideas for the people in my life. so i feel not only ashamed when they dislike my choice of gift, but also embarrassed that my perception of them was wrong.

you might be thinking, “it’s not that deep.”but to me it is. gifts convey so much: emotion, nostalgia, attention to detail, thoughtfulness, closeness.

just once i wish someone would get me something thoughtful, something i truly want, something they clearly put effort into.

i think all of this stems from my love of gift-giving, yet also all of the negative experiences i’ve had surrounding it.

growing up i would be shamed for not having a big enough reaction upon recieving a gift, and be forced to “practice” acting more excited. it didn’t matter how much i smiled and said “thank you” — it wasn’t good enough. i was too quiet and shy. (and this is ironic because i was constantly told “children should be seen and not heard”, yet shamed when i quietly, politely accepted a gift.)

in my first relationship, my ex didn’t get me anything for most of the celebrations we had together — anniversaries, birthdays, christmases, valentine’s days. even putting aside the fact that his socioeconomic status was substantially better than mine, i try to look at it simply from a perspective of fairness or consideration. he knew it was important to me — that was evident from the huge haul i gave him every chance i got, and the gentle prodding i’d do about the subject. and yet he did nothing in return.

i love spoiling people. it’s hard to resist going overboard when shopping for a loved one, and i think that’s due to my stifled exterior. i come off as aloof, i know this — and so, i rely on gifts and acts of service to express my appreciation for people. i don’t know how to express it verbally or physically, through a hug, a heartfelt word, or anything else of that nature. i’ve always felt even more self-inflicted guilt about this, but i try to remind myself that this is how i was raised, and i’m doing the best that i can. that, and i’m only twenty-two.

i just hope that someday i can be gifted something truly heartfelt: an annotated book, something handmade or hard-to-find, something nostalgic, something i metioned briefly months prior. i wish someone would gift for me the way i do for everyone else.

this isn’t just about gifting, it’s about love.

i wish someone would love me as intensely as i love other people. the lopsided gifting with my first boyfriend was indicative of the imbalance in the relationship as a whole. i hesitate to date again in case i end up slipping into something like that again, something unfair to me. with every other man i’ve tried to date it’s been the same.

i don’t know how to end this piece on a positive note, as i usually do. my thoughts on this have not yet led to a conclusion. and i suppose there will be no conclusion until this wound of mine is healed, whether from the inside or out.

until next time,

emm

i feel so much guilt due to my inactivity. i’ve been in a terrible depressive slump, which is to be expected after graduating from college into a recession and struggling in the rat race (in a job that isn’t even in my intended career field) just to pay my bills.

i feel so aimless since graduating. no more do i have the structure that school provided for my entire life. no more do i have a list of assignments to complete, readings to keep me busy, people to hold me accountable.

yes, the concept of a personal curriculum has been trending, and as a lover of academia it is appealing to me. but i lack the energy and self-discipline right now to make it happen. i’m taking things one day at a time. setting small, realistic goals for myself. i only aspire to finish one book per month now. that’s generous.

i don’t know what the next step is. i would love for it to be graduate school, but i'm terrified of getting my hopes up, and terrified of being rejected. i don’t know how i would handle a blow to my self-esteem like that in my current mental state.

i feel that i’m growing distant from my loved ones. and the more time that passes, the more guilt i feel, so the more hesitant i become to contact them — friends and family alike. i feel the same about my substack community. but i know that discomfort is tantamount to growth.

i keep wondering what the next step is. will i teach english abroad? will i go to graduate school? will i get a job i love? will i publish a book?

and yet, i know that accomplishments never provide me with a sense of accomplishment.

what will make me happy? that’s what i’ve been wondering. what do i have to work towards? let’s say i do publish a book — who cares? am i even qualified enough, and how would i measure that?

with every risk comes the potential for a great reward or a blow to the ego.

whether that be publishing a book, applying to graduate school, or something else, it’s all a gamble. i’m trying to stay positive and stay motivated but it’s difficult when i feel so aimless. i’ve been experiencing so much self-doubt — in my writing, my second language abilities, my qualifications.

i don’t know how to get back up on the proverbial horse. to keep working on my writing, to keep applying to jobs, to commit to submitting my applications to graduate school.

i feel burned out from working so much and getting so little time off, from feeling isolated, from being broke.

i need a bright spot in my life, but i’m scared that if i try and fail, it will only make things worse.

this post is not to garner pity, but simply to explain to my readers why i’ve been M.I.A.

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december 4, 2025

update: i wrote the post above a week and a half ago. it’s crazy how much can change in such a short time (also, how much a hormone cycle can influence one’s mental state). since that depressive downward spiral — i’m not sure if i hit rock bottom and it was only uphill from there, or what happened — i’ve begun to feel a lot better. it was like something clicked one day as i was researching camus’ existential philosophy. there’s a quote by him that i’ve had rattling around in my brain for years, but reading his work lately has his words more in the forefront of my mind. the quote in question is: “the literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.”

so i began to set goals for myself. i submitted two applications to graduate school, and am actively working on a third. i started journaling and reading more often. i started to think about my future and my values, my goals in life, and how i can achieve them.

this isn’t to say that the way out of a depressive episode is simple. i had a lot on my mind — trauma, existentialism, secrets. it takes time to work through these things. sometimes, time is all you need, and there’s no easy way around that.

anyway, that’s my life update. i truly am sorry for disappearing, and i’m making an effort to write and publish regularly once again. i have many ideas brewing in my head after my time away. thank you to everyone who is still here; thank you for your patience.

until next time,

emm

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