substack is just another diary

run-on sentences are very important to me

when I started this Substack a few years ago, I said it was like a diary I left open for everyone else to read. A space where I could write random thoughts, share feelings on films, and the little things I notice about my life and day-to-day, all usually through a piece of pop culture. Doing all this knowing someone might read it (or like, not) and that would be totally okay.

when I was a kid, no one really wanted to listen to me. No one really wanted to talk to me either.

i was always craving connection and craving conversation, and I didn’t always know how to ask for it. So, I turned to two things—film and writing. I watched films to feel my feelings and then I turned to a page to write my way through them. I had no clue that decades later I’d be making a career out of it but, here we are class.

it eventually led to connection in a small way in early middle school. I found a friend who liked the same things I did, it was one of the earliest times I can remember feeling understood. Having this friend was proof that being myself didn’t mean being alone AND that spending hours in front of the TV wasn’t all that fucking bad.

then I grew up, and the more I found connection in the real world, the more I wanted to write about the things that led me to it, and one of those things was film. I truly believe the biggest part of my success as a culture writer (and also critic) is that my emotions are in every piece.

i won’t just tell you to see a film ‘cause it’s good or bad (SALTBURN IS THE EXCEPTION BITCHES IT’S JUST GOOD AND WEIRD GO WATCH) but I’ll feel my way through the film and then write it so you can do the same. I want you to feel it with me, to notice all the little moments that stuck to my soul or made my heart twinkle, and all the ones that stayed with me when I’m in my Uber on the way home.

before I got a tumblr, before I set up a Blogger, before I signed up for LiveJournal, and before I used my AIM away messages as a stream of consciousness (with a Papa Roach lyric and Blingee goth girl or eight), it was just me, my notebooks, and my diaries.

i had so many kinds of fucking diaries. The black and white dotted ones you could get at the dollar store, the ones with the flimsy lock that you could VERY MUCH just twist off, a Dear Diary that I consistently forgot the password to, I had them all.

i had notebooks where I would write myself into episodes of Boy Meets World and Clarissa Explains It All, and notebooks where I tried to solve the cases on Ghostwriter and Alex Mack along with them. Then there were the notebooks I filled with the feelings I wasn’t allowed to have out loud.

where my 9, 10, 11-year-old emotions lived and moments from some movie or TV show where a character felt the same. I’d write out what they did to move through it in the 28-minute or 90-minute runtime and then I’d try to do the exact same.

if they told their parents how they were feeling in the next scene using a quiet voice and big words, I’d try it too. If they stood up to their bully with a big attitude and big energy so did I.

what I didn’t understand then was that it was all make-believe, that just because they had a happy ending on screen didn’t mean I would too. But looking back, I think about what was most important that even with all that I was experiencing, I knew that an end would come. The happiness bit was sometimes blurry, but the ending part always entirely clear.

i didn’t know when, where, or how but I knew it existed, and until it got there I always had the movies and my notebooks.

i’d write myself to sleep with the glow of the TV screen lighting up the room. Sometimes it’d be something perfectly fine for a closeted kid to watch like Xena: The Warrior Princess or Are You Being Served? Other times it was shit I should not have been watching AT ALL, like Taxicab Confessions.

and i miss writing like that. no structure, no point, no audience, just a whole bunch of kid and teen feelings and bits and whatever was heavy in my head or my heart.

with Substack and all the essays, opinions, and bits of poetry and critiques, I kind of wish we could go back to that a little more. Just letting people ramble, like we used to in diaries we never expected anyone to read or notebook margins no one was supposed to see.

i write how I speak, and when you’re reading my words, except for a little light editing, I say things exactly how they show up in my head—half-thoughts, half-feelings.

so while I love reading a hot take or seven, i also want to read rambles too. your barely formed thoughts, the stuff you let sit in the drafts ‘cos they aren’t perfect. Apparently, it’s the 2000s again (MY CULTURE IS NOT YOUR COSTUME!) so post a listicle of your notes, break down the lyrics to your favorite song, or get really tumblr with it and just share a bunch of horny .gifs, WHATEVER YOU WANT! and i’ll be here scrolling and liking away.

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Extras:

• if any of you come across the Clueless Dear Diary, I WANT IT

• I have not watched enough movies this year and I need to spend December catching up and I want to watch at least 100 and I’m not fucking joking.

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okay thanks for reading ok byyeeeeeee!!!