There’s an observation Ira Glass made in an interview once that in recent months I’ve been chewing on more or less nonstop, even though it’s practically antediluvian in Internet Years (I mean, 240p?). It’s been referenced online for ages, but I’m partial to this presentation on Vimeo:1
Glass is describing me, here. *I* want to do interesting creative work—writing, specifically—but what I’m capable of making is kind of a disappointment to me. Hear me out. Although I’ve written things in the past and have even had a couple things published, I remain very intimate with the feeling of disconnect he describes. I want my writing to have that special thing, but I’ve never actually committed to the work. I haven’t committed to a certain level of output—a steady, rhythmic expectation of falling short on purpose. As Glass says,
“[It’s] only by going through a volume of work that you’re going to catch up and close that gap. And the work you’re making will be as good as your ambitions.”
Initially I was going to say that my therapist made me do this2—but if we’re honest, my therapist is just rearticulating my own desires with more conviction. What it comes down to is I really just need to start writing. Regularly. It’s counterintuitive, but the truth is quantity leads to quality. So I’ve decided to commit to the work—I’m going to put myself on a weekly deadline and share whatever comes out, and I’m inviting you to join me by subscribing.
Subscriptions are $4/month or $40/year if you sign up in the month of May; the price will go up to $5/month and $50/year on June 1.
You’re charging for this?
It’s a valid question, especially since I just flat-out admitted that the whole point of this is to essentially generate a bunch of unpolished work. Well: the primary reason I’m charging for subscriptions is to create external accountability. I want to put myself on a deadline that’s got a little bit of teeth, and I feel like imagining an assembly of paying subscribers pantomiming impatience with invisible wristwatches and otherwise nonverbally giving me the business will get us there, for the most part.
And I swear I’m not trying to reverse-psychologize you when I confess that I kind of hope you don’t subscribe. Because it’s entirely possible—probable, even—that I’m going to wind up writing and posting some real stinkers throughout the course of this experiment. And who wants to be exposed like that? So—and remember, there’s no reverse psychology being employed here!—so I’m actually kind of incentivizing you not to subscribe, if you think about it.
The deets
Here are the nuts and bolts of my commitment:
One post every week, published on Tuesday mornings for at least one year, starting with this one. Future weekly posts will be for paid subscribers only, as will the ability to post comments.
Occasional public posts (i.e., available to everyone regardless of subscription status). Public posts likely will be A) polished versions of pieces that were shared with paid subscribers earlier, or B) administrative-y things related to the newsletter itself. Click below if you prefer this option.
Things you can expect I’ll be writing about
Generally speaking, paid subscribers can expect:
Various kinds of short fiction: one-off short stories, parables, serialized narratives, scenes/chapters from long-gestating novel ideas
Autobiographical, memoir-ish pieces
Theological explorations
Unnecessarily detailed hypotheticals
Children’s stories
Cultural commentary
Specific ideas I’ve had and in some cases actual WIPs:
A novel-length thriller about a young woman with cancer and the online community devoted to proving she’s faking it
A horror story titled Subdermal
A humor piece I’d like to eventually submit to McSweeney’s: Simple Summertime Cheesecake and I’m Leaving My Husband
A handful of children’s stories like How Do You Give A Hamburger A Bath?, Pray on the Way, and They Kept on Walking
Things you can’t expect I’ll be writing about
—Point is, anyone who subscribes is reeeeally rolling the dice, content-wise. Things are going to get weird. You deserve to know that up front. I’m still not 100% sure what I’m going to post next week, for example. In other words, there’s no clear direction here other than hoping that the very lack of direction paired with a bit of perseverance will amount to improvement in my writing abilities and confidence. ✨
“Neon Parentheses”?
Yeah. That’s the name of the newsletter… as in: Neon Parentheses by Jake Bouma. There’s not much else to say about it because I’m not 100% sure what it means either. It came to me a while back and I wrote it down and now here we are. It’s the Ally-Sheedy-in-The-Breakfast-Club of newsletter names—super attractive because it’s so enigmatic. Also I like that it’s vibrant and vaguely literary. Also Substack requires a name and Jake Bouma by Jake Bouma is both redundant and deeply aesthetically unpleasant. I’m open to suggestions, but we’re gonna go with Neon Parentheses for the near future at least.
That’s it. That’s the pitch. See you next week?
P.S. Another really helpful thing you can do to support me is to share this post—it costs nothing and it helps mightily!
Fun fact: The technique used in this and countless other videos you’ve no doubt come across is called kinetic typography.
Setting this whole thing up was my “homework” assignment, but the nice thing about therapy homework is if you don’t do it you don’t get in any real trouble—you just have to talk about why you didn’t do it (which I suppose might qualify as a kind of nontraditional trouble for some folks)