Sally

The Squelching ‘20s

“It suxx that I was born in 2047. I wish I’d been a 2020s kid!”

I want to preface this by saying that I’m not a bitter or mean person. Whenever someone says something like that, it generally means that they’re about to say something wildly cruel, ignorant, or insufferable.

I promise that this isn’t the case. (This time, anyhow.)

Let me start back at the beginning — that manufactured quote, about life in the 2020s — and life as it’s going to be perceived by future generations.

I try not to fall back on pessimism, but it’s safe to say that we’re living through some wild times right now. In spite of that, in twenty or thirty years, our kids (or our grandchildren, or perhaps even our great-grandchildren) are going to romanticize life in the ‘20s.

But these are not the Roaring ‘20s. These are the Gasping ‘20s, the Sobbing ‘20s, the Squelching ‘20s.

Certain things have made life in the 2020s so … disconcerting. There are many lovely things happening right now that are worth celebrating — but there are plenty of trends that are less than swoon-worthy.

The same way that Millennials have cringed over photos of their Spandexed, bemulleted, and acid-washed ancestors? Generations Beta and Gamma will scream-laugh when they see an IG Reel featuring their grandpa’s gas-guzzling, vinyl-wrapped, Carolina-tilted Ford F-250 Super Duty. They will hoot and holler when they see their meemaw’s Shein dresses and Fashion Nova janties.

And I’m not a hater — I swear! After seeing The List — a compilation of the side effects of pregnancy, meticulously logged by a young TikTok user — I felt like I could do something similar. I wanted to start a catalog-slash-index of the worst trends/moments/crises of the 2020s.

And so I did.

Here’s a running list of things that have made the 2020s less than romantic:

anti-intellectualism
artificial intelligence, misuse of
cryptocurrency
Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization
dogs inside restaurants
facial-recognition technology, abuse of
fast fashion
high-beam headlights
hostile architecture
housing crises (mortgages, rent, and homelessness)
hydraulic fracturing
inclement weather, higher frequency
insurance ads, unfunny
insurance companies, greed
janties/jiapers
low-rise jeans, revival of
main character syndrome
Marvel movies, ubiquity of
mass shootings
media illiteracy
monthly subscription services
multi-level marketing schemes
non-service animals, service vests on
opioid crisis
over-the-shoe bodysuits
pandemics
pivot-to-video
plastic, single-use
politicians, authoritarian
price gouging
public health crises
1. See pandemics and opioid crisis.
push notifications
road rage, increasing
Shein
1. See fast fashion.
side hustles
spam callers/text messages
streaming services, enshittification of
SUVs, increasingly large
tip creep, self-service checkouts and
tornadoes and tropical storms, increasing prevalence of
Twitter, downfall of
vaccine denial
vindictive landlords/AirBnB hosts
wage gaps

I believe that the only way we’ll be able to counteract the worst of this stuff is by talking about it, so … let’s not sweep it under the rug. Let’s acknowledge it. Let’s talk about it.

And in the meantime, I’ll keep adding more entries to this list.

Tasty Treats

I’m trying to eat Bauducco wafers while writing (and revising) from the comfort of my bed, and I’m failing miserably.

My bedroom looks like a sawmill. There are so many teeny-weeny flakes of golden crumbs that it looks like sawdust. Or glitter.

Vanilla-flavored glitter. Mmmmmmm.

Then again, the flakes make my bed look like it has cradle cap. Eeeeeeeeeeewww.

Food has been giving me trouble this morning. Earlier, I said Harby’s when I was trying to say Hardee’s.

Please don’t blame me when Arby’s-Hardee’s fusion food becomes a trend in 2024. I don’t want to eat a Roast Beef Gyro Goodburger Thickburger, either.

Trouble

There were two times I got in trouble in high school.

The first incident involved a “mean” op-ed I wrote for our school’s newspaper. It was about a local high school that had 20 valedictorians while our school only had one valedictorian. (Two at most. One year, they dragged the GPAs out by four or five decimals and the students were still tied for first place — at least that’s what I’d heard. That time around, they awarded it to both students.)

The column basically said, “Wow, grade inflation is wild. They don’t do that at our school, and it’s probably a good thing, because they’re just getting us ready for college/the real world/the reality of being average.”

Apparently, students, parents, and administrators at the other school got mad at “being accused of being soft” or something like that. They were so mad that they called the superintendent of our district, and he came and smoothed things over, for me and for the newspaper staff. That was really, really great of him — to intervene on behalf of his students.

But sheeeeeeesh at the other school district’s superintendent, for trying to penalize and punish students at our school. Not because of violence, not because of threats, not even because of crosstown rivalry graffiti — because of 400-something words printed in a school newspaper.

I often say that I’m one of the most progressive, left-minded, open-minded people. But I can’t wrap my mind around arguing with a teenager over an opinion piece that honestly wasn’t too inflammatory.

Because of this incident, I learned a valuable lesson. Whatever words you write — even if it’s a relatively inoffensive statement — there will be someone who gets their ~~panties twisted~~ thong snapped. We live in a “You love pancackes? So you hate waffles, then! 😡” kind of world. It’s time to accept that.

Eat your pancakes, ****ers! Eat your pancakes! 🥞

The other time I got in trouble is less interesting. I nearly “failed” a drug test at school, because I’d already gone to the bathroom that morning. Ultimately, they had a teacher take me over to the local drug testing lab — where they test people who are starting new jobs, and where they test also people who are on parole, I guess. They had me come in around lunch time — after I’d had a few hours to chug a bunch of water — and then I was able to submit a sample.

I didn’t even do anything wrong — but everyone was put out by my inability to go to the bathroom on command. What can I say? I have an enormous bladder, and I wasn’t using any drugs. I swear.

The wildest thing about all of this is that they made every student who parked on campus take drug tests — and since I drove myself to school, the test was mandatory. This seems like the kind of overreach they’d only be allowed to get away with at some uber-parochial charter school. But I attended a public school.

The public schools around here are freakishly uptight — and if you need proof of that, look no further than the first few paragraphs of this post.

Those are the only times I remember being hollered at, or reprimanded, or glared at. Well, that last part isn’t true — I was always being glared at. But those were the only times I ever got close to getting a detention or a suspension.

One time, I did skip class and went to the drive-in with two of my friends. I just straight-up skipped class — and I went out to eat with probably two of the smartest, kindest kids in my math class. They were like, “Don’t worry about it! We won’t get in trouble, because it’s almost summertime! They won’t mind! No worries! 😇”

We didn’t get in trouble. They were absolutely right. Teachers really liked them, and … well, they were good kids. They really were!

That day, I learned another important lesson. I learned that, if I can befriend people who are more likable than I am, other people will give me grace — as long as I’m standing beside a cool or kind person.

It makes me want to be a kind person, too. Being cool isn’t in the cards — but I can be more likable by being more kind.

And I can do that much. I know that I can.

A-Fiction

After spending the past year writing essays on Medium and newsletters on Substack, I’ve accepted that I’m more of a non-fiction writer/essayist/blogger/ex-journalist than an author of fiction.

I’ve tried writing fiction. I think anyone who enjoys writing for the sake of writing — or storytelling for the sake of storytelling — has made up a character or two. Or they’ve built a secret world, or drawn up a fake map, or imagined a new place.

And I’m not just talking about fantasy writers — I’m talking about folks who write romance, contemporary fiction, literary fiction, and dozens of other genres and sub-genres. Inventing fake people, fake colleges, fake bands, fake music festivals, fake contests, fake romances, and fake countries is pretty fun — and it’s common across the genres.

Having said that, I have such a tough time writing fiction, because I often fall back on my real life for inspiration. I can write about stuff I don’t know about. (I love doing research — and I’ve always worked in research-heavy fields, so I know where to find good sources.) But I like to write about real people and real memories and real places.

Lately, I’ve spent time working on a … short story? A novella? I don’t even know what I want it to be — I don’t want to overwrite it, so I imagine it will be fairly short.

Even though I don’t know how much I’m going to write, or how I want to end it, I know that what I’m writing is a love letter to three separate, imperfect parts of the South: the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee, the river-lined wedge of western Kentucky, and the wide-open Llano Estacado, in western Texas.

I’ve written before about another part of the country my family hailed from — the Chesapeake and Outer Banks areas. I wrote a bit about these parts of the world in Alameda and Sabrita, two short stories I wrote back in my early twenties. That was a while ago, when I was first getting my footing as a writer. (I’m still getting my footing, all things being equal.)

But this new story — Old Granddad — has the flavors of the other places my family has called home.

Speaking broadly, I come from a part of the country that’s been a land of growth and a land of cutting-down. Black and Indigenous people, poor people, working-class folks, and women and children have faced adversity — and triumphed against it — in this place: the South.

My own family eked out a living by doing just about every typical working-class job. From the earliest colonial years, my ancestors were sharecroppers — and at least one of my ancestors was an enslaved person of Congolese descent. These early ancestors of mine certainly didn’t have an easy time here in the South. But our family remained here for generations, making a living one way or another.

My great-grandmother was a sharecropper, a clothing factory seamstress, and a caregiver for her murdered brother’s children. Her daughter, my maternal grandmother, was a maid and a hairdresser. My maternal grandfather was a veteran, a cattle farmer, and a machinist. My paternal grandfather was a coal miner, a crane operator, and a logger.

His father — my great-grandfather — was a bit more carefree. He spent all day doing nothing, and then spent all night drinking and playing cards. He once sold a box of turnips weighted down with rocks, and the grocer bought it, so I can’t say he didn’t make at least one attempt to feed the family. But my paternal great-grandfather was the direct opposite of my maternal great-grandmother, who nearly broke her back working as hard as — if not harder than — any man in her family.

At the end of the day, my maternal great-grandmother and my grandfathers were probably the three hardest working people in our family. Their toiling was brutal — and they were underpaid, under-thanked, and under-rewarded. Their effort was all worth it, and they knew love and respect and support, but they never could be thanked fully and properly for all the sacrifices they made.

These two sides, paternal and maternal, met in me. I’m three parts hard-working, one part ready to take a break. (That’s thanks to my great-grandfather, who made recreation his life’s work.) I feel like I owe them all something that I can’t quite give them.

In some small way — to record bits and pieces of their stories, and to incorporate these stories in whatever I’m writing — I hope I can preserve their memory. FI may not be able to do a lot, but I want to try to do that.

I want them to live in, in stories, in recollections, in warm memories. They live on, in the writing and the reading, in the pictures, in the words.

Af-Flix-ion

Me: I’m looking for a documentary about —

Netflix: Got it, friend! 😎

Me: … okay. The documentary doesn’t involve crime or celebrities, right?

Netflix: Uhhhh. Let me look again.

Me: I’m just looking for something about, like, an obscure moment in history, or a scandal in a competition, or a person who makes cool sculptures, or the rise and fall of KMart, or —

Netflix: Yeah. We don’t do stuff like that. We have Kaled Over: Death of A Vegan Pizza Heiress and Load€d: The Big ₩ild Bit¢oin $tory.

Netflix: Take it or leave it.

Please Be Kind — And Help Me Find My Mind

Over the past four years, I’ve lost my mind.

Before the pandemic, I was a normal person, and a normal coworker — if a bit quiet and shy. But in the wake of stressful times, I’ve become completely anxious and overly-precise. I’m not too particular when it comes to other people — but I constantly chastise myself.

I’ve also become dull-witted, tongue-tied, and poorly spoken. I used to be able to make jokes, but now, I just sit with my anxious thoughts. I feel like even my voice sounds weak and sad, when it used to sound so … warm and full of life.

Sometimes, I hope and pray that I’ll win the lottery – even when I haven’t bought a ticket. Just so I can start over somewhere else, where no one knows me. Just so I can reinvent myself — this time, as a happy person.

He’s A Bad Man, Savannah

I debated whether or not I should post about this — in part because it’s inconsequential, in part because it’s not about Mayville, and in part because I didn’t really know if I could use the right words to write a non-NSFW post about it.

But I’m going to try my best. So …

Sometimes, there’s not a lot to do around here. The best way to stay entertained is to read a book. When there aren’t any books that hold my interest — assigning the blame to the books and not myself, you see! — I’ll turn to television. I started watching Connect on Hulu this month, just because I didn’t give it any attention when it first came out, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

For those who might not be aware, Connect is a horror-meets-murder-mystery-meets-thriller-type of show. It falls under the KDrama umbrella — sort of — but it’s directed by a Japanese filmmaker and it has the pacing of a Hollywood-y/Hulu-y psychological thriller.

It’s … alright. I personally think it’s more corny than scary, but that’s just one silly person’s opinion. And now that I’ve given you my opinion, and a few background details, I can finally say what I really wanted to say. And it’s this:

Giiiiiirrrrrl. When she went over to the serial killer’s condo, and she told him she was going to ride him like a buckin’ bronco, she should have known right then and there that something major was wrong with him. Why? Because he immediately went straight to the main course — and he didn’t even try to make her give him some [redacted] first.

That man was a cold, cruel mess. And he had a nasty, dated, odd-looking hair cut. I don’t really understand why she was soooo into that man. But the actor playing the villain is find as he’ll in real life, so … she clearly saw something in him. Mostly his appearance, but still.

There’s also that I-can-fix-him appeal. That was probably irresistible, considering that his insides are ~~just as bad~~ worse than his outsides. Aside from that goofy-ass haircut, his outsides are quite nice. Mmmmmm-mmmmmm-mmmmmmmmmm!

Jesus Be An Editor

Around here, and on Twitter, I occasionally hear people say, “Jesus be a fence.”

Right now — to be brutally honest — I’m finding some members of my immediate family to be annoying, so I often find myself asking for Jesus to be a security fence between them and me.

Protect my mind and my fists, Lord. Inshallah it never comes to blows.

But I also find myself asking for divine intervention in other areas of my life.

Today, as I was alone with my thoughts, I started thinking about the folks who work in PR. These people go out and film things, and then they go back to their editing suites, and then they produce the final package. They’re responsible for the whole thing.

As I write and post things on Medium and Substack, I start to get excited. Not overwhelmed, not really, but jumpy. I have something that’s ninety-five percent complete — but then I start getting antsy.

I’ll be editing something, chopping over here and adding over there, and then I think, “Surely this is it. Surely I can go ahead and click Publish. Surely it’s done. But what if it isn’t? What if I need to go back and …?”

I start to wonder if I need a user’s manual, or at least a little guidance.

There are industry standards, I’m sure, in making advertisements and things of that nature. But what about personal essays, and blog posts, and newsletters? How will I know when I’ve met all the terms and conditions? How will I know?

Then I realize that it’s probably a good thing to have a little freedom. It gives me a chance to use my own voice and do my own thing, without having to be hyper-vigilant or punishing myself. I can just … exist.

And I’m pretty good at doing that.

I Am A Publisher

A while back, on another blog, I wrote about the Golden Age of Blogging.

Between 2004 and 2009, you could surf the web and find all sorts of blogs.

Mormon mommy blogs, with super short paragraphs and long, long photo dumps. Blogs run by German high schoolers, where they’d wax poetic about their favorite music — My Chemical Romance, Justice, Tokio Hotel. (Those were the usual suspects.) Blogs that were only created for a class project, only to be abandoned a few months later.

I actually enjoyed those the most. It was fascinating to find a three-to-six-month time frame preserved in amber like that. A digital scrapbook of sorts. I love it!

But … that was then. And this is now.

I have to say, I only got back into long(er) form writing when I started (1) posting essays on Medium, (2) blogging on WordPress again, and (3) writing a monthly Substack newsletter.

I do all of this for fun, by the way. Not for money. Although …

Where’s that Donate button? There’s got to be a Donate button or block or widget that I can insert on here and … Nah. I won’t do it.

This time.

Anyway, I’m not here to give tips on how to make money by writing short little blog posts. I’m just here to say that I only got back into long form writing because of the downfall of Twitter.

Between 2009 and 2023, I wrote roughly 21,000 tweets, most of which I didn’t delete.

I look back now and laugh at this — but when I was 19 or 20, I realized that (like many others before me) I wanted to write a novel. I figured I needed to write around 75,000 words — so I was constantly doing math. 500 words a day, and I’ll be done in just a few months! 100 words a day, and … I can spread this out over the years, right?

No book materialized. Not even a novella. I will say, I kept a 200-word schedule up for about a month or so, which is impressive. I had a 700-day language-learning streak on Drops, which I also eventually quit keeping up with. But other than the streak on Drops, I would have to say that my regular attempts at writing …

Well, it gave me something to be proud of. I was proud that I kept chipping away at it. And I did churn out a lot of words — some of them were pretty good. But there were no novels, no novellas, and no short stories.

I repurposed some of the more colorful descriptions into poems, and I compiled those into a little chapbook. It sounds pretentious — and maybe it is. 🫠 I can see how it might seem pretentious, even though I genuinely love poems and poetry. Even the ol’ epic poetry. But I digress.

I never managed to produce a novel, despite my best attempts at word-counting.

Like counting calories, which can also feel like wasted effort.

When I saw, though, that I’d posted 21,000 tweets, I felt even sillier. There they were — my 75,000 words!

If each tweet were at least six words long — and I’d say many of mine were longer— then I’d have 126,000 words under my belt. A novel and a novella.

I realized — about a month ago, actually, when they were threatening to purge inactive accounts and the accounts of deceased users — that someday, all of those tweets would probably disappear.

So I immediately downloaded my archive and uploaded everything I could to the Internet Archive. It took about a day and a half, but it’s there now. It’s preserved.

Until someone goes after THAT website — Lord, don’t let him try to acquire the Internet Archive! Millions of pages will be taken down overnight. My chest is hurting at the thought of that happening. “OhhhhhhmyyyGodddd, nowayyyeeayyeeeayyyyyyaaaay!”

But … whew. I need to calm myself down right quick. Genuine terror struck my heart. Damn.

In any case, I may never publish a novel — although I am working on writing one. Just for me. Just for fun.

But even if I never publish a novel, I have “published” things online. Forget the quotation marks — we can just drop those. I don’t need to try to qualify what I’m saying here, because this is a blog entry, and not a scholarly paper. I can just be literal, without trying to write defensively.

The Internet has enabled all of us to be publishers. With just a single click, I am my own Simon & Schuster.

Now I am become the Big 1, publisher of words.

I have published tweets. I have published blog posts. I have published newsletters. I have published poems on Wattpad and Archive of Our Own. I have published reviews on Letterboxd and Goodreads. And it only took one click to call myself a publisher.

Someone else is doing the hosting, I realize. But I am the writer, the editor, the marketing department, the sales department, and the publisher.

The sales department is being really lazy, by the way. One of them suggested adding a Donate button to the blog instead of actually trying to sell anything. Can you believe that?!

… I have to go now. I need to add publisher to my LinkedIn.

A Good Thing

The best part of living in this town?

The coolest person you know — someone who you admire, someone who you’re jealous of, someone who you want to impress — will never, ever want to move here.

You will never run out of the house with unbrushed hair (or unbrushed teeth!) and unexpectedly bump into them in Walmart or Save A Lot. It just won’t happen!

Not so bad, right?!