I am having a warehouse sale

5 weeks, 5 essays — welcome to my mini-series

I lured you to this newsletter by convincing you it was about questions to ask your mom (so, I used a parent as an excuse — the oldest trick in the book), when really it is just me every couple of months telling you that I have not written anything new. Reporting back — I still have not.

Now, in this most recent season of my life, there has been a fairly concrete reason for that — one I am apologetically teasing you with mostly because it 85% isn’t mine to talk about, and also because I have nothing to say about a grief so big. What I will say is, I used to have a dream about publishing a book, and now I dream about being outside, and not being so tired all the time, and picking up knitting again. Lately, I’m dreaming about standing by the ocean, full deep breaths, more time being.

And, writing and creating something is cool, but what if, for now, I actually just want to exist more? What when I’m growing tired of a mile long daily to-do list on which “write something” always gets moved to the next day — what if the only thing pressuring me is me and suddenly I have the momentary clarity to step away? What if my desire to write my story was rooted in the ego, or what if I will be avoidant forever?

Maybe part of this is the cost of writing for a living now. I don’t write essays anymore, I write 50% off plastic-thing-digital-diamond. I write you-want-this-you-need-this, buy-this-thing-to-be-like-me (I am a stranger behind the computer screen).

I write because I love to, it pays me back in empty words. Every metaphor stems either from money or fruit, if you really go back to the root of the writing tree.

Again, to recap: I haven’t thought of anything new in ages.

But wait, there’s more (wink, infomercial, copywriting, wink) — I have five pieces I’ve been sitting on, and the small sliver of me left that feels drawn to writing creatively (and, crucially, sharing on top of that) is saying that maybe if I just get those out into the ether, there is some possibility that I’ll be awarded enough mental room for me to write something new, though that’s never how it works.

Enter — the Warehouse Sale. Over the next 5 weeks, I’m going to be releasing these essays in the order I imagined them for some dreamed-up print project — buy none, get five free with expedited overnight shipping directly to your inbox.

Here’s the elevator pitch on these pieces as a “collection” of sorts, if that’s what you could call them.

In this essay capsule — which I am loosely titling “HABIT CREATURE” — Julia Lin explores how flossing and hating yourself can be categorized by the same word. She holds a microscope to her relationship with obsessive compulsive disorder, shitty soccer coaches, immigration as a buzzword and a bypass, and Los Angeles’ darkling beetles. She sells herself short and she sells herself (that is to say, she hopes you like her). Do you?

See you soon for installment 1.