Be Useless and Love Other People

On Art, Writing, and Interdependence

Hi y’all,

I hope you’ve been holding up all right. Like many people I know, I feel like I’ve been dealing with the election results in a steadier, less stricken way than in 2016. Something down the line is bound to wreck me, and when that happens I plan on letting myself be a mess. So if you happen to be a mess now, that’s probably what you need to be.

As for myself, I’m finding the need for more counter-culture, less popular culture. Current events are not helping with my own deep-seated mistrust of popular opinion and so-called common wisdom. What I’ve been gravitating to do feels in many ways antithetical to what many of us have been told to do. I just want to be useless and love other people.

Yes, I’m donating. Yes, I’m pissed and sad. But unlike last time, I’m not in a hurry to read anything serious. Back in 2017, I was invited to a panel at a local bookstore in Chicago about what we should be reading given the circumstances of those times. I brought with me my copy of Laila Lalami’s novel The Moor’s Account—a novel about the contagion and madness of imperialism—and Nell Irving Painter’s The History of White People—a work about the inherent fallacy of whitenesss.

Both of these excellent books helped me find a framework to more clearly understand the ascendance of my country’s right-wing populism. However, as I was on the panel, I noticed that nearly everyone on it (myself included) was recommending serious books. Like: deadly serious, sad, tragic books that will make you weep. Books that are grappling with some of the ugliest parts of the human experience. Books that are said to be necessary.

And that is true. These books are needed.

What felt left out of the conversation, in retrospect, was our collective need for levity, joy, humor, and solace. Those qualities give us nourishment in a time that is facing an avalanche of crises. It is those unserious qualities that have aided and nurtured people throughout incredible difficulty and suffering. 

I was thinking about this before the election when, in the midst of collective anxiety, I kept hearing highly accomplished and successful writers downplay the power of their work and of writing itself. It’s healthy to have a sense of humility and acknowledge the limits of one’s individual influence. At the same time, there’s an underlying suggestion in those conversations that art is not powerful.

That suggestion—art is not powerful—feels like it comes from a place that looks at social impact in ways that can only be calculated, rather than from a worldview of interdependence—how everything in life exists in a complex, living network of causes and conditions, most of which are unknown to us. 

Art’s power is diffuse. Because it doesn’t have a particular utility, art’s scope and impact is immeasurable. 

Art is very useless and very powerful. These are not contradictions. 

The day after the election, I was tired from waking up periodically to check on the results. I went to work. I teach a fiction writing workshop to undergrads. It’s the end of the quarter, a time when my students are always exhausted and stressed. The day after the election happened to coincide with the day I had them make collages. Something about cutting up pictures and words and doodling with a nice set of colored pencils frees the imagination and helps them find air-holes for their stories to grow into.

I told them they could collage about whatever they wanted, not just their stories. If they wanted to, they could use the time to process the election results, and that ultimately, this was going to aid them in crafting their final projects, even if it felt like a diversion. If you make a sanctuary for yourself in a world that is hard and indifferent, you will become a more emotionally regulated, more contented person—and that enables you to support to other people. 

I was happy when one of my students emailed me afterwards to tell me how they found the collage to be helpful in processing the gravity of the election.

What appears to be useless and frivolous—what appears to be fun and child-like—is just as vital as any serious work of art that is reckoning with the heaviness of this moment. On some occasions, it might be even more valuable. Acts of creation and enjoyment serve as a kind of sanctuary. 

That feeling of sanctuary is exactly why authoritarians want to suppress and censor art and books.

Art threatens authoritarians because it inspires in us a loyalty to humanity over loyalty to the state.

Art is why I just want to be useless and love other people right now.

I’m glad to be here with you, dear reader, and hope that you’re doing okay.

My feeling is that we need to take care of people who are in our circles and beyond. As a way to show support to you and others I’d like to offer a pay-what-you-can editorial feedback to anyone who donates $25 or more to the Highlander Center or the ACLU. Just take a screenshot of your receipt and send it to me.

I can read 200-300 words of your work and give you brief feedback. I’m open to reading your fiction, essays, and poetry. (And if you want to get a feel of what my tastes are generally like, you can find a list of my published work here and my background as a creative writing teacher and coach here.) 

Lastly: I only have the spoons to do this with three or so people, so please DM me to let me know you’re interested so I can put you on a list and send you my email address.

Here’s what’s been bringing me some levity, joy, and solace lately:

I felt very validated about writing a post on the power of art and then stumbling upon a video of Toni Morrison agreeing with me.

Ali Wong’s hilarious, filthy stand-up, Single Lady, is about being divorced in her forties. I’ve no plans on ever getting a divorce but she makes a convincing argument.

Sally Rooney writes good beach reads. Granted, Intermezzo is like a moody, cold, gray Irish beach. But it’s still a beach.

A Trackless Path, written by the 18th century Tibetan yogi and mystic Jigmé Lingpa and translated by Ken McLeod, is hands-down one of the best texts on meditation I’ve read. It reminds me a bit of the Tao Te Ching in its elegance and soft directness. It’s taken up a semi-permanent residence by my night stand.

I continue to be obsessed with learning how to dance bachata. I listen to “Soñé con Ella” by Antony Santos on my walks to a nearby nature preserve and dance to it when no one is around and so far only some birders have caught me. 

Reading this essay, “To See With Eyes Unclouded By Hate,” by Swarnali Mukherjee, did my heart a lot of good last week.

Kim Kran’s The Wild Unknown Tarot deck is so dang pretty. Tarot was something I used to play around with my mom as a twelve-year-old, so it has felt a bit surreal seeing Tarot become so popular in recent years. I finally stopped rolling my eyes and bought this beautiful deck that looks like it came out of a watercolor sketchbook. And I’ve been loving The Moon Shed by

Claire Amritavani Brown

, where you can find lovely spreads and card interpretations.

A friend of mine came to visit over the summer and brought her felting kit with her and made the cutest, tiniest little critters. As soon as I’m done grading, I’m diving deep into the felt world and taking my kids there with me.

I am writing a kinda queer, kinda sexy book. I plan on making it more explicit. Not because it’s necessary but because I’m spiteful.

The Blue Room by Suzanne Valadon (1923). Wikipedia.