I'm back. I'm writing a book ... and it's hard!

I’m always writing a book.

I’ve been writing one since I was a child. It eventually got finished at age 13. Shock of not shocks … it was terrible, as were the subsequent books I wrote out in cursive, in long-hand, in a series of spiral notebooks. All the stories were about things I knew nothing about — dating, college, adulthood, crime, sex, and most interpersonal relationships, not getting the memo at 13 that you’re supposed to write what you know.

But everything I knew back then was boring. I was a sheltered, suburban teen, not allowed to do much besides go to the mall on the weekends with my mother and sisters. What was there to write about? How I was bullied from first grade until 11th grade? That year in the 8th grade I spent absolutely friendless? That time I asked for a dog/cat/hamster/rabbit and got cold, boring, suicidal goldfish as a pet? My life was nothing but the lamentations of a “county brownie” — aka a once-Cosby kid growing up in the poshest suburbs one could find in the wilds of North St. Louis County.

A Million Little Pieces this was not. (And neither was A Million Little Pieces.) My life was more like Saved By the Bell if the kids only went to school, then went home to do homework and watch copious amounts of television before bedtime while waiting for their life to begin.

So, basically, my life was kind of dull.

But I’ve managed to find the humor in it! Life is too short to spend it miserable over some stuff that happened, like, 30 years ago at this point. Yet, my book starts out with all the crap that happened from birth to my misguided marriage to an emotionless, proto-Hotep in 2001, previously the most consequential and miserable year of my life until 2020 came along and said, “Hold my beer.” And writing this is going to be “interesting” and by “interesting” I mean, I re-read my old diaries from high school and college, and… ahem … ma’am! I was clearly always Bipolar because I was both a brilliant, fantastic baby and the hottest of messes. Sometimes at the same time.

So I’m trying to pick titles. Right now the working title is a thing my dad used to yell at me all the time when I interrupted the Cowboys/Lakers/Dodgers game with my loud-ass conversations with my equally loud mother. Others think I should dust off the name of my old blog for it. But after writing it, “Lamentations of A County Brownie” sounds great … if I was only selling this book in the STL! Do people even say “county brownie” outside of Missouri? Asking for a friend!

But, mostly, I wanted to start a Substack for moments where I feel like writing, but not in my journal, not on this book, or for my day job as EIC of HuffPost. Basically, this blog is pretty low-stakes. It’s mostly going to be me musing about writing this book; my life — both past and present; occasional quips about the news of the day; culture stuff, all things Bravo (I’m currently watching the entirety of Vanderpump Rules from the beginning and I am RIVETED); humor “tings,” and, very sparingly, some politics. (I did make my start on the East Coast writing about it!)

So subscribe (or not!), and if you’ve been following me since The Black Snob days, THANK YOU! You’re the reason I am who I am now and where I am now even if you hate-read every word (hate clicks are still clicks, y’all!), so I’m forever grateful for your readership, fandom, or sheer hateration! Just don’t stalk me. I don’t like it! Also, I’ll never respond, ever. EVER! So go stalk someone who wants to engage because they have the time and all the smoke for you. I never had the time, and I’m not gonna start now at this big age!

Until tha next episode!

The Snob

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