Longer Posts – Page 2 – Jamais Mayville

Not Another Business!

I have never been self-employed.

Not really, I should say. I’ve always been in school, working for someone else, or doing both of those things. Other than a brief period of unemployment after finishing graduate school, I’ve always been studying or working.

But because I’m friends with lots of folks who do media and art — freelance writers, photographers, videographers, folks who draw and paint — I see that lots of my friends have their own studios, or LLCs, or business accounts on Facebook.

I’ve never been tempted to set up my own business, because I know that it’s not for me. The two most “business venture”-y things I’ve done:

(1) I started a podcast, but I only posted about twenty episodes over the course of a year. That was more of a personal project, anyway, so I didn’t expect to sell any ads or make any money.

(2) I have a Teepspring storefront, where I “sell” all sorts of shirts (and stickers and mugs) with silly slogans on them. I’ve never made many sales — but I didn’t plan on making that my primary source of income.

With the podcast and the storefront, I didn’t feel like I was making “business moves.” They were just fun creative projects. Not very time-intensive, and they didn’t involve too much labor.

I like a good project. I’ve done lots of projects, from helping to build a deck to filling sandbags to doing bad oil paintings — but I don’t want a second job.

And this is coming from someone who’s worked two jobs at the same time before. I remember my six-day work-weeks and the days where I would work from 8 AM to 8 PM. I like being able to come home and have dinner before 9 PM.

I don’t want my own photography business — even though I only shoot landscapes and no portraits, so that point is moot — or my own freelance writing/PR business, because it seems like a lot of work for minimal payout.

The market is ~~chock full o’nuts~~ saturated right now. Everyone in the market has a podcast, a blog, a content creator page, a professional page, and a wall of platitudes that they sit in front of during their Zoom consulting sessions. Everyone in the market is worried about aesthetics, monetizing hobbies, side hustles, and branding. Everyone has a personal brand that features their name and their image quite prominently. Everyone has been told to brand themselves — because it could affect your business(es), past, present, and future.

Earlier today, I saw a post bemoaning this face-first style of branding. The marketer said that they were actually getting tired of having to brand every post, to make sure every post fit Their Brand, to get dressed up a certain way to film their content, to have their personal page linked to their business page, and so on and so forth. They said that their “next business” would be “faceless” — as a means of reclaiming some privacy.

I SMH’d IRL. (And I don’t really say things like that — but that’s precisely what I did.)

“SMH,” I said. “Starting a second or third business just to have some more privacy?”

I understand where they’re coming from. I do. That’s why this blog is semi-anonymous. (I don’t post pictures on here, and I think only people who know me on a personal level would be able to speak on the Real Sally — whoever that is.)

But I think it’s wild how people are overburdened by their side hustles and business ventures — so they’ve decided to start another one. 😵‍💫

I see what the ultimate goal is — to jump ship from the photography business to the anonymous “Farmer’s Wife” recipe blog, from the photo-heavy recipe blog to the anonymous “Angora Lady” yarn sales site, from the knitting YouTube vlog to a faceless vlog with close-up shots of the hands, only.

People are tired of getting dressed up for their cooking videos — and they’re realizing they could just show shots of the counter and their hands. They don’t have to put on a full face of makeup or trim their beard to do an audio-only podcast about urban legends. People just want to be comfortable while they’re working. Having to be on all the time — as an influencer, as a micro-celebrity — is exhausting.

I’m glad I’ve never started a business. I’m fine with following someone else’s rules during the day, so that I can go home at night and not have to worry about things like overhead, sales figures, SEO, brand reach, or anything that requires strategic financial planning.

I’m glad I’m not an influencer, or a content creator, or a consultant. I am an anonymous blogger — and this is the only faceless business I plan on having.

WAGs

I wouldn’t want to be a WAG — not really. It seems like a lot of work to be camera-ready, when I’d much rather be lounge-around-ready.

The one aspect of dating a professional athlete that truly fascinates me is that the players are apparently on the road all the time — and on training and travel days, you’d have the entire house/condo/castle/mansion* to yourself, if you wanted it that way.

That is fascinating. I’m sure I would miss him, especially if he’s a hunk, but imagine having a whole mansion to yourself. This mansion wouldn’t be MFH beige-and-gray. The walls might be off-white, but there would be pops of color. (Don’t ask me which colors — I haven’t even picked out our wedding colors yet.) It would be maximalist-minimalist, with a small-ish number of big-ish eccentric artworks and pieces of furniture.

Nothing too ostentatious — and no sculptures. I don’t want anything that couldn’t be knocked over, and I don’t want anything that’s difficult to dust or to clean.

(I’ve thought a lot about the sculpture situation in this imaginary mansion, I know, but it pays to be prepared. What if he’s a good player and has lots of trophies? I’ll need to dedicate my energy to figuring out how to get those dusted.)

I’d want to live a simple life. I would be an uncomplicated WAG. I wouldn’t ask for designer stuff, because I would rather wear plastic Walmart bags fashioned into a dress than to wear any Coco Chanel. No, thanks.

I would fall asleep in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, with a fake fire burning in the electric fireplace, and a book open on my lap. I’d read twenty pages at a time, and I’d drink a few cups of masala chai or cold brew, and I’d call my man and make sure he knew how grateful I am.

I would be a WAGG — a wife (and/or) grateful girlfriend. Especially on road match weekends.

* This is a game of MASH. I’m going to live in a castle with a Premier League player. We’re going to have 7 kids and drive a tractor. 🚜💨

Odd Ball

I used to be “normal.”

Not in first grade, when I chewed on pencil erasers.

Not in second grade, when I got in trouble for sending dirty little notes in class — notes with extremely vulgar language! — to my best friend.

Not in third grade, when the teacher sent me to the front office to get checked for head lice — because I had dried shampoo in my hair.

Not in fourth grade, when I suddenly got heavier and wider than all of my classmates.

Not in fifth grade, when I started over at a new school and had a hard time fitting in.

Not in sixth grade, when I missed ten days of class just because I would get stress-induced stomach aches.

Not in seventh grade, when a classmate told everyone I was a lesbian just because I didn’t have a boyfriend. Not in seventh grade, when kids would make fun of my super curly hair.

Not in eighth grade, when kids were still making fun of my super curly hair.

Not in ninth grade, when my hair would get matted sometimes from not being brushed properly, because I was so depressed.

Not in tenth grade, when I felt hopeless and lonely.

Not in eleventh grade, when I struggled with my classes and realized I wasn’t really a good student.

Not in twelfth grade, when I realized I wasn’t ready for college, but that I would be expected to enroll anyway.

Not in college, when I would go to class while I was depressed, when I could barely muster the energy to shave my legs or take a shower or any of that.

Not in grad school — oh, no. Sorry. That is when I felt like a normal person. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was finally pulling things together. At 22, I finally felt normal.

Until later that year — 2016 — when everything seemed to go downhill for everybody — politically, personally, all the way around.

By 2020, I became socially-anxious, silly, germaphobic, and awkward — and it became even worse after 2020. I don’t recognize my own personality, most days. I can tell I rub other people the wrong way, but I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong — because I’m going through the same motions as everyone else. Maybe they can sense the fact that I’m lost — behind it all, I’m lost.

I felt lost between 2016 and 2020, and then I felt even more lost between 2020 and 2023.

I ~~guess~~ know I lost myself — the woman who was normal for one year.

I know it sounds corny, but I’ll find myself again. In 2030, maybe — or maybe tomorrow.

One can hope.

Elitism

I’m not an “intellectual” in the strict sense — I hate Greek mythology and I absolutely can’t stand when people drop Latin phrases into non-legal or non-medical conversations.

I like to read, but I don’t like to be smug about what I have or haven’t read. (The only thing I’m willing to be smug about is that I absolutely despise Edmund Spenser. I wish I could do to him what Twain threatened to do to Austen, shin bone and all.)

I’m certainly not an elite. I spent the first four years of my life living beside a railroad track — so the phrase wrong side of the tracks is more familiar to me than Ivory Tower, even though I have been degree’d up. I’m credentialed, I guess, but I feel like the same little girl who stood out in the yard, waving to the train conductors, begging them to honk the bellowing horn. They always did, from what I remember — and those are fond memories.

Before I digressed, I was saying that I’m not an elite. I go back and forth between two tabs on my phone — the New Yorker and r/datingoverthirty. I look at the first one when I want to make myself upset over not having written the Great American Short Story Collection, and I look at the second when I want to remind myself that being 29 and unmarried is okay, because nearly every single person is either lonely or messed up. Or both.

All of that’s to say that I balance my high-brow interests with my low-brow interests, and that I often realize that my low-brow interests are more relevant to my own tastes, my own behavior, my own lived experiences.

I will never write the Great American anything, because I enjoy reading more about literary gossip — and the bad behavior of writers — than I would enjoy trying to emulate their work. Similarly, I’ve yet to find someone I want to marry — but I feel like that’s more within my reach, and that it isn’t an elitist aspiration to find a partner.

There are two “elitist” hills I will Green Boots myself on. The first is that I don’t enjoy the show Friends. I don’t haaate it, although I understand why other people do. But I feel like the Venn diagram between “people who think Friends is the funniest TV show ever” and “people who liked playing Chubby Bunny at church youth retreats” is probably close to a circle.

I think it’s perfectly wonderful to watch that show, if you really enjoy it, because it isn’t hurting anybody. It’s a harmless show — but it’s also a toothless show. And that’s its biggest sin.

The second “elitist” hill I’ve climbed involves reality TV. As a teenager, I hated Jersey Shore, because I thought it was shallow. Guess what? It is shallow. That’s the whole point.

Most of the MTV reality shows know that they’re shallow. I don’t mind reality shows that understand and actively embrace how depthless they are. The reality TV shows I can’t stand are programs like The Bachelor, where finding love — something that should be sincere or fun — is trivialized in the form of competitive dates. The idea of competitive dating is bonkers.

That being said, dating is inherently competitive—to a certain degree. All of the eligible singles in your area are also looking to find someone, and while that doesn’t mean that everyone else is your direct competitor, it usually means that you have to find a way to make yourself seem like the Most Appealing Bachelor(ette). You want your partner to feel like they won a prize.

At the end of the day, I still have more in common with the people who watch Friends and The Bachelor. I would much rather listen to them talk about relationship journeys than to listen to anything about The Faerie Queene or dawn with her rose-red fingers.

Life is too short to be (too) pretentious. Sometimes, you have to eat ice cream for dinner — just because that’s what’s available, or just because that’s what all your friends are having.

The Smokers’ Circle

The last man I dated in college — and I hesitate to even call it dating, because I’m so selective that I rarely even go out to eat as a duo, just me and a fella — used to smoke American Spirit cigarettes.

He wasn’t American, I should say. I would hesitate to date an American who smokes, but I’m more inclined to forgive it in non-Americans. I really, really don’t like it — but I know that smoking in public isn’t necessarily frowned upon in some European and Asian countries.

Al fresco cafés are filled with chain smokers and, while I don’t take a romantic view of smoking, I feel a certain kinship with the smoking clown in Edward Hopper’s Soir Bleu.

But I do remember being a little appalled at the fact that, in the 2010s, people were still smoking as a pastime. Even then, it made me feel a bit uncomfortable — and I’ve never dated anyone who vapes, which I imagine would make me feel even more uncomfortable.

I’m not trying to be a hater. I just … I’m not a smoker. I find other ways to cope with my oppressive anxiety, like picking my hangnails and updating my blog.

Disgusting Stuff

Sometimes, I’ll think of something so disgusting that I make myself cringe. I can usually keep from saying it out loud, but even if I don’t say it, I find myself dwelling on some horrific stuff.

The other day, I described a handsome man as “hot from his pores to his sores.”

I thought I’d forgotten it. I did not forget it. And now, because I can’t forget it, I’m sharing it with you.

This isn’t the only 🥴 thought I’ve had this week. The other thought was about a line in Megan Thee Stallion’s “Simon Says.” The part where she talks about tights and … parts of the human anatomy. Big-built parts of the human anatomy, in particular.

I listened to that song on the day it was released, IIRC. In all my years of listening to that song, I’ve never said anything unsettling or cringeworthy about the lyrics. But now, in 2023, I managed to make myself cringe by saying, “He can tell this ain’t no Slim Virginia.”

Meg, girl — I — I’m sorry. From now on, I’ll only post peer-reviewed bars.

I immediately wanted to tape my own mouth shut. I absolutely need to spend time on something more productive.

I should probably invest in some duct tape, anyway. I never know what horribly corny thing I’m going to think of (or say) next.

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.

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.

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.