Covid Made Me Do It

(At least that's what I plan on telling my agent)

The night was freezing, far too cold for November in Asheville. Andrew had laid a fire in the bedroom’s wood stove while I sneezed in a tiny room I affectionately call The Library. I’d come home from London, where I had been taking a fiction writing workshop, with Covid in tow, so Andrew and I were dancing through the house, never in the same room at the same time.

When the fire was blazing and the stove set to catalyst, Andrew retreated to the living room. I propped myself in bed with a book and my phone. The person who usually helps with my Instagram was, ironically, also down with Covid. Despite being sick, I needed to keep up the account. Followers are important for writers, especially those of us in non-fiction. I opened the app. To get the most traction, I would need a Reel—the latest in a long list of Instagram algorithmic annoyances—but there was no way I was going to spend twenty minutes in Canva creating a moving meme. Earlier I'd been playing with the settings on my iPhone’s camera (I’m always noodling with the settings, trying to recapture the lost feel of film). Laying in bed, I scrolled through the pictures I’d snapped: the dogs being goofy, artfully arranged bookshelves, the woods at sunset. These types of homegrown photos are no longer prioritized on Instagram. But… Covid. I didn’t need something spectacular, just enough for the app to register that I was still alive.

Clicking a photo of a painting—a crow in splashes of orange and navy—I uploaded it. The white rectangle appeared, awaiting a caption. What to say? I adore this painting, done by a friend of my mom’s, but since this image will get no traction, you’ll never see it. Thanks Instagram! I stared at the screen for another second, a feeling rising in me, a sensation similar to the internal updraft I feel as a chapter begins to coalesce, becoming cohesive in my mind. When I put my thumbs on the phone’s keyboard, a bit of venom sparked off their tips. I was suddenly possessed by a desire to reclaim something from Instagram… or maybe from my life.

I hit “post” and deflated back onto the pillows. The fire crackled. Through the sky lights, I could see the first stars.

And then, something happened. Over the next few hours, there were likes, comments, and DMs—my followers, like me, seemed thrilled to be openly incensed with “the gram’s” soul-crushing algorithm and enticed by the minor rebellion of refusing canned music and ever moving Reels. After years of carefully planned and controlled posts, this felt like freedom. Like my readers knew I’d raided the pantry and was dishing up sentences actually spiced with human emotion instead of the deliberate milquetoast mush I’d been serving up for the last three years.

The feeling of being myself—of being inspired—for the five minutes it took to write that Instagram post has replayed in my mind these past few days. There was outrage, yes, but there was also a feeling of nostalgia or, maybe I should say, of hireath, a Welsh word I learned during my attempt to fill my feed with satisfying, yet unoffensive, information that people would like and share without objection. Blandifying my IG account was intentional, part of a plan to avoid cancellation. (I can feel your ears perk up. “Canceled?” you say, wondering what illicit thoughts I keep from my left-leaning friends. That you are titillated— that we all are titillated— is exactly the issue. We no longer lean in, ready for a solid debate grounded in curiosity. Instead we are poised to pounce, hands hiding poison darts. The last few years have shown me that fascism can be approached not only from the right but also from the left. There’s something in us humans that craves moral certitude, that finds it difficult to resist mob mentality.) So, I keep my Instagram bland, and—after a pic of a new haircut lost me 500 followers—I also keep it “on-brand.”

Staying on-brand, and constantly worrying about saying the wrong thing and getting myself canceled, are twin lumps in my throat. They’re also an impediment to my creativity. Studies are starting to support what some of us have long suspected—social media actually kills creativity. I can personally attest that a pile of likes on Instagram doesn’t seduce the next book idea. So while the book marketing industry needs me on point and on-brand, the muse needs me wild and unfettered. She appears when I’m considering odd mash-ups and juxtapositions: How does the moon relate to a Twinkie? How does Mitch McConnell square with Mars going retrograde? This thing I call “magic” loves the interstitial spaces between two seemingly unrelated concepts; it relishes the friction, the soupiness, the unkempt messiness, of creation.

My social media presence is structured, perfectly presentable and well-coiffed. Photos match the style of the grid; comments are sincere, not snarky.

But well-coiffed is not my natural state.

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A few days ago, a friend called. It was unscheduled, but not out of the blue—we’d been texting about a rebrand I’m doing in advance of a memoir I have coming out in June. Bemused, I reached for the phone. When did phone calls become something we put on the calendar? I remember staring at the phone as a teenager (back before caller ID), trying to discern who was on the line and if I should pick-up the mustard colored handset that hung on the kitchen wall.

Now? No mystery.

“Hey Christene!” I answered.

As part of the big rebrand, I’d been thinking about a Substack. The musings had begun on the autumn night when I had lain in bed with Covid, frustrated with the choices I had for expressing myself. But while a Substack was intriguing, it seemed like yet another commitment, a space where I would have to show up poised, polished, and well-behaved.

But I’d kept chewing on it. I’d been texting with my friend, Christene, sharing ideas for a very branded Substack, pretty much a continuation of what I do on my website. But she had a different idea:

“What if you're thinking about this all wrong? What if Substack is a place you can experiment? What if you don’t have to be on a schedule or even know exactly what you want to write about?”

I could hear her pause to take a breath. Then:

“What if I don’t have to be on brand?”

My mind reeled. I began to imagine Stephen King, somewhere in the wilds of Substack, writing very un-horrific posts about restoring Chippendale highboys or Cheryl Strayed teaching readers how to fly fish. I’m making this shit up, of course. As far as I can tell, Stephen King—the author—isn’t on Substack yet, and Cheryl Strayed is doing Dear Sugar. But you see the point? I was handed a plate overflowing with possibilities and I was suddenly ravenous. What if a Substack was an opportunity to publicly be a whole human again instead of a tightly structured brand?

So here we are. Or here I am. I haven’t told anyone I’m doing this so don’t have any readers yet. (And doesn’t that feel like a new beginning?)

There’s no big plan as I write this first post. These words are a seed. I’ll water them, you’ll add a little sunlight, and we’ll see what grows. I suspect this newsletter will be unlike my Instagram feed and more like my home, my brain, and my life: layered with found objects, papered in asymmetrical ideas, a bit wabi-sabi, and a tad (just a tad!) unkempt.

Is this a terrible idea?

Probably.

Luckily, if it all goes to hell, I can tell my agent Covid made me do it.