I wrote two very long posts this week while I had the flu, which is not a condition known for clarity, proportion, or emotional restraint.
One of them—an essay about whether moving to the country is liberating or limiting—I passed to Michael, something of a sphinx editor, for a look. It was, I intuited, gently declined. Not rejected exactly. More… placed carefully on a shelf marked Already Said.
We have a small set of questions we ask before sending anything out into the world.
Is it necessary?
Is it adding anything?
Does it land?
Is it funny?
Apparently, the answer to all four was a..demur. The piece was, I got him to acknowledge, “a bit flat.”
This seemed fair. I felt flat.
Then I attempted a New Year’s highlights post. My favorite things of 2025. Proof, perhaps, that even in grim times there are still tulips, and excellent vintage shopping, and moments of real delight if one is paying attention.
By the time I finished, the self-loathing was intense.
The embarrassment of blessings. The shame of cheerfulness. The chirpy optimism of “my favorite fashion moment” and “a personal highlight” felt inappropriate, if not actively immoral. Who was I to be perky? Read the room. Read any room.
