Editor’s note: There’s a lot I wanted to explore this month—mostly about what’s coming next from prosebud, and my internal struggle between staying true to my voice and eventually making a pittance via Substack. But mid-June I got really sick, and since then I confess my brain hasn’t been quite up to it. (I’ll share more about this at some point.)
For now, I’m offering these half-baked musings to keep up the momentum, but I promise, next month you’ll get something a little more upbeat and maybe even shopper friendly, if that’s your thing.
As always, thank you for reading.
Recently, I attended a charming afternoon event celebrating the launch of a local chef’s new single-pour canned wine. That day our beloved Bovina was teasing the summer’s best—sweet, dewy ferns unfurled and fanning the air, clusters of dame’s rocket painting the roadside violet, and secret swimming hole paths mowed into massive swathes of cow parsley. And there I was, trying my best to match our lively little Catskills town with my own “out of hibernation” energy, clopping down Main Street toward Brushland Eating House in a cotton romper and garden clogs—big, berry red earrings a-swish like I was someone’s eccentric auntie. Before I could set foot inside the restaurant, I was happily waylaid by a pair of ladies I'd not seen in quite a while. They sat just apart from the gathering crowd, chatting on the stoop over canapés and petite cans of rosé. Squinting into the sun, they paused to greet me, and the usual pleasantries were exchanged. So, what had everyone been doing lately?
Let’s see. Since the loss of my job after mat leave, I’ve been mostly home, minding the baby. Not exactly the stuff of sparkling conversation, but then really, I’m not sure that’s ever been my specialty. As a follow up, one of the women asked would I remind her—what was it I used to do at Etsy?
I once had a well-scripted answer for this, but after nearly a year’s worth of distance I seemed to have forgotten my lines. “Marketing,” I started, and then got tongue-tied, stared uselessly at the sky to try to find some words (none there, just clouds), and eventually mumbled something vague about storytelling and small businesses. Sweating, I excused myself at the next natural break in our conversation to go get my hands on one of those wee wine cans and drink it down quick. (Damn it, it was delicious.)
The truth is, I’ve always dreaded any variation on the question, “What do you do?” In my twenties, it was because I was deeply embarrassed by my day jobs, which were just roles I played to get by. But by the time I hustled my way to a paying editorial position I actually liked, I realized—even if it fulfilled some small piece of me, I’d still have sleepless nights questioning who I am and what I’m doing with my life. Cue the quintessential millennial American midlife crisis: the desperate need to prove our work doesn’t define us.
Back on the stoop, I suppose if I were an entirely different person—the type who didn’t spiral over every perceived failure—I might’ve been able to quiet my inner capitalist critic. Perhaps instead, I would’ve observed brightly how my stay-at-home-mom status has encouraged me to uncouple my identity from what I do for money. I might’ve even mentioned prosebud, and how I’m slowly reacquainting myself with a core part of my being through writing for me.
My neighbors would get it. They too are among the innumerable dreamers who’ve been romanced by this remote farming community—who came here in search of the type of clarity that can only come from letting go of who you thought you were and sticking your hands in soil. Oil painters and slab ceramists, blues crooners and bread bakers, picture makers and poets—we’re drawn to Delaware County like fireflies, pulsing toward the glow of our fellow soul searchers. All we want is to put our hearts and backs into producing something good and true, and watch it take root.
Ultimately, that’s what I’d hope to do with prosebud, too: to write words that stir up feelings and touch nerves. If I could just put something out into the world that makes it a better place, perhaps I’d feel like my existence has been earned. Maybe then I might actually call myself a writer. Or maybe when I’m finally comfortable claiming the title, I’ll find I have no use for it.
In the meantime, all I can do is keep trying. And until my more personal “work” stands on its own, you’ll find me returning now and again to what I know: content designed for shopping. Because despite my lofty goals, as it turns out, even a mountain mama’s gotta make a living.
I’m curious to hear from any creative types out there who identify as artists: what does that mean to you? How do you determine whether your efforts have value? And is creating content for money always a sell out move?