The Curse of Blessings

My Big Night Out

It’s Saturday night in the summer of 1996. I’m in my bedroom in the huge house I’m sharing with 4 other people. It’s a new situation for me. I’m trying it out, but it’s difficult. I don’t like having housemates. I like my privacy and quiet, but the opportunity arose for me when I was looking for housing, and I thought, why not give it a try? At least I’d save some money. I walk down the hall to the shared bathroom to take a shower before I head out. Sharing a bathroom is the hardest part of this living situation. I take my clothes off and lean in to the stall. As I reach for the knob to turn the water on, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a mass of dark curly hair blocking the drain. My stomach flips and I gag. That hair belongs to the 18-year-old kid who lives down the hall. He turned me on to Rusted Root, and I love him for that, but who raised him? Geez, man, clean up after yourself. I’m not your mother. It almost puts me off taking a shower. I’m resentful that I have to deal with it, and briefly consider dragging him out of his bedroom and shaming him into mindfulness. Instead, I clench my jaw, try to shove my feelings down, and armed with a handful of tissues and I retch slightly and reach into the shower, turning my head a little––so I don’t have to see––and feel for the bird’s nest below. I grab it, pull it all out, and quickly toss it into the garbage. “Okay,” I say to myself “try to remember why you’re showering at 8pm on a Saturday night…you’re going dancing.” There’s a new gay club that opened and I want to check it out. Maybe I’ll meet someone, I think to myself. I want to meet someone. Showered and dressed in my favorite club outfit, it consists of my black high-waisted stretch pants with white polka dots, my sleeveless black turtleneck, and to finish the look, my favorite part: a hot pink cropped linen jacket, shoulder pads and all. Yes, it’s very 80s, and it’s the mid-nineties now, but I like what I like, and I think I look hot. I do look hot, dammit! I get to the club way too early. I can’t help it; I’m not cool that way. There are two other people, and we wander around the open dance floor, avoiding eye contact. We don’t want to acknowledge each other’s awkwardness. It feels so desperate, showing up before the deejay. I roll my eyes at myself, and survey the space. I buy a ginger ale and find a wall to lean against and wait for the other people who are looking for love, or sex, or both, to arrive. The cute gay boys begin to trickle in, two and three at a time, and the dance floor fills. I’m shy and tense. “Why did I bother?” I say to myself, shaking my head, “I won’t meet anyone tonight.” I treat myself to a real drink. A shot of crappy bottom-shelf tequila. Slugging it back, I want to feel softer, less stressed. It relaxes me a little, burning my throat as it moves into my bloodstream. I’m not much of a drinker. I rarely have more than one because I have to get myself home. As I’m spinning possible horror stories in my head about what could go wrong because I’m shy and kind of nerdy, a woman walks in. She’s dressed in white, wearing a v-neck tee-shirt and jeans. She looks like one of those people who don’t need to obsess about the way they present. She looks casually perfect to me. She’s cute. No, she’s beautiful. There’s disco playing, and she’s dancing on a platform. Her hair is blonde, and cut blunt to her jawline. Her teeth are perfect, straight, white, and oh…her smile. Her smile is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s bright, she seems so happy, so self-assured. She’s dancing alone, and projects confidence in her solitude. She seems like she’s in another world. I stare at her from across the room for what feels like a very long time, too long maybe, but I can’t stop watching her. She looks up, coming out of herself to take in the room, scanning the crowd and her gaze lands on me. I freeze inside, but somehow my smile takes hold of my face. I have a great smile too, though my teeth are not as white or straight. It’s a big smile that lights up my face. There are times when I lose control of my smile. It’s authentic, and I can’t and don’t want to shut it down. Smiling makes the rest of me relax a bit, though I can feel my heart beating more quickly than normal. She sees me smiling and smiles back. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, until my shyness returns and I break the spell, gazing downward. We approach each other from opposite sides of the space and dance together. Between the two of us, there’s an awful lot of smiling going on. It’s fun. We barely speak to each other, it’s so noisy inside. I can feel the bass line pounding, matching my heartbeat. Trying to stay present to the moment I’m in, I can’t help but wonder…what if she’s the one? Ugh. I do this every time. Tied up in futuristic thoughts, I lose track of what’s happening right in front of me. We agree, wordlessly, to go outside to take a break, and get some air. Leaning against the building we talk. I like her. She’s smart and very, very funny, and she’s got a great laugh. It feels easy and exciting. As we’re chatting, some guy drives by in a rusted-out Buick that needs a new exhaust pipe, and screams “F*****g dykes!” at us. We look at each other and burst into uncontrollable laughter, saying “f*****g dykes” over and over again. It’s hilarious. Swapping phone numbers, I fly home, filled with hope. I’m nervous but I call her the next day. She’s into growing organic vegetables and lives in a tiny antique Airstream on a friend’s farm. She’s got her own plot, and doesn’t pay rent. In the olden days, we’d call her a sharecropper, but that’s hardly okay anymore. I’m a massage therapist. I swap a massage for cucumbers, tomatoes and more zucchini than a family of four could ever eat in a lifetime. We begin to date, move in together, probably way too soon (not in the Airstream). But this “roommate” is one I can happily share a shower with. It only lasts about a year, I’m not ready for love, I don’t know how to do intimacy, and I leave. But later, after the hurt heals, we become best friends. Thirty years have passed since the night we met. Sometimes, we tell each other that story, sitting on her deck, drinking water and getting high. We look at each other, and at the same time, yell “F*****G DYKES!” and laugh and laugh and laugh. Check out my next story slam from Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam! June 20th, at 5PM ET on Zoom. Kill the Patriarchy. That’s our plan. Are you in or out? Featuring the best storytellers ever. Amy Bee [https://substack.com/profile/8598354-amy-bee] Amy Gabrielle [https://substack.com/profile/5498662-amy-gabrielle] Dina Honour [https://substack.com/profile/197565366-dina-honour] Jane Trombley [https://substack.com/profile/6384167-jane-trombley] Dana Laquidara [https://substack.com/profile/24558162-dana-laquidara] Jane McGuinness [https://substack.com/profile/251461481-jane-mcguinness] ProfessorMeredith [https://substack.com/profile/15651979-professormeredith] Soraya Chemaly [https://substack.com/profile/328814-soraya-chemaly] Susan Kacvinsky [https://substack.com/profile/251136184-susan-kacvinsky] TerriSunflower [https://substack.com/profile/25355783-terrisunflower] Wyrd Sister [https://substack.com/profile/288744353-wyrd-sister] Mel Moseley [https://substack.com/profile/278864321-mel-moseley] And….one more thing. On October 17th, I’m producing a Queer Slam for a fabulous change of pace. The theme is Come Out, Come Out, Whoever You Are! DM me to find out more. All writers on Substack who identify as queer, trans (male and female), gay, lesbian, nonbinary, and any other way you define yourself that falls within the Q-Zone, come tell your Coming Out story. And Allies? Come support us as audience members. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe [https://nantepper.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Did You Pay Your Taxes?

Here we are again. April 15, 2026. My taxes are due. Your taxes are due. Did you pay them? I didn’t. Now don’t go getting any ideas about how brave and rebellious I am. Or how stupid. Because to the former, I’m brave and rebellious in my best imagined version of myself. And the latter? No, I’m not stupid. Not at all stupid. I’m just really, really pissed. For the last 3 or 4 years, I’ve gotten extensions and filed my tax return in October. One reason? I’m a designer, not a bookkeeper. I suck at money. My accountant rolls his eyes each year as I miss the deadline to send him my profit and loss in time for an April 15th filing date. In October 2024, I promised him I’d file 2024 on time in 2025. But that promise was made before the results of the last election. I was going to turn over a new leaf and be a citizen proudly supporting the good works that Kamala talked about during her spirited campaign. I was going to be proud of being an American again. I was going to be part of the tidal change I longed to see. But I didn’t get to do that, because the worst thing possible happened. FOR A SECOND TIME. The first time? That was just a dry run. Now, the worst is happening every single day. I want NO PART OF IT. I wrote a story in my head. Here it is: Every American refuses to pay federal taxes, either escrowing the money or sending more to the states we reside in. They want to scare us with government shutdowns? No. I want to scare them with a massive shutdown created by the citizens that elected the charlatans who need to be reminded that they work for us. They are civil servants. Not civil oligarchs. Want to paralyze the military? Stop paying federal taxes. Hold them hostage for a change. Bring it all to a halt. Overwhelm this travesty of a “government” with so much civil disobedience they won’t know what hit them. They know money talks. That’s a lesson we simple folk need to learn more about. Boycotts? Meh. Boycott Amazon, Meta, Spotify, Paramount. Small potatoes. Won’t make a dent. But stop paying taxes? That would create a calamity so enormous that it’s beyond our ability to comprehend the level of gridlock it would cause. So yes, that’s my fantasy. Will it happen? Doubt it. Will I do it? Doubt it even more. I’ll file, but I most likely won’t owe a cent. Oh, wait, I mean a nickel. Because there are no more pennies, anymore. I won’t owe a cent because I’m downwardly mobile. I’m a sole proprietor of a tiny business that barely makes a profit at all. I can pay my bills. My expenses have almost outpaced my income for years. And you know what? I kinda like it like that. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I am stupid. 20 years ago, I met a woman who worked as a maid to keep herself fed, clothed, and housed. She was an educated, spirited tax resistor, mostly because of her anti-war, anti-military beliefs. She only worked for cash. She lived under the radar. Hard to do these days. I was floored to meet someone that brave. I talk a big game, but my imagination is where most of my fights happen and most of my victories, too. I couldn’t imagine doing what she did. Until now. My argument isn’t rooted in any real knowledge of numbers, economics, or political theory. It’s rooted in anger. It’s my rant. It’s fueled by emotion and common sense. It’s fed by the disbelief that we’re being managed by criminals, rapists, morons, and cowards. And we pay our taxes? I want no part of this b******t. The warmongering, the lack of accountability toward United States citizens of every stripe: the destitute, unhoused, the mentally ill, the immigrants fighting for their lives. The people who work three different jobs and still can’t get by. The middle-class, if it still exists at all, and yes, even those with money. Can you imagine paying into a machine that is systematically destroying the lives of the people who keep this nation going? Yes. Us. We keep it going. What are we getting in return? More debt. Less medical care. Homelessness. Lies. Reductions in social services. We have more food insecurity, housing shortages, insurance fraud and plunder, failing infrastructure. Our bodily autonomy is being hijacked. Freedom of speech is being dismantled. All of these things are being taken from us and we’re footing the bill. We’re being stolen from every single day by a monster who’s building ballrooms and golden arches. A monster who’s selling citizenship to the highest bidder. A rapist who’s invading other countries illegally, killing innocents, and pillaging natural resources of his own accord, while breaking one law after another, and not being held to account. We’re bankrolling our demise. I don’t want to pay for that. Do you? I’m careful with the little I have and I have a great life. I have a roof over my head that I’ve worked hard to keep and I wouldn’t have this home if my dad hadn’t left me money when he died. I wouldn’t have my simple 1000 square foot ranch if it weren’t for him. My sweet home needs repairs and upkeep. But I can’t afford that. Can you? I don’t need a lot to live a satisfied life that’s filled with gratitude. I’ve never understood greed, and that’s what this country is built on. It’s not built on kindness; it never was. It grew from a desire to conquer, to overwhelm, to take what didn’t belong to us. That’s America. Why can’t we be better? Take care of one another? Provide for our basic needs? I’ve never understood borders. I’ve never understood men who think they have a right to whatever they desire. Conquest. Money. Women. Real estate. It’s never enough. The greed is bottomless. But guess what? The earth is finite. We are finite. We’re burning it down, day after day. What an ungrateful bunch of wretches we can be. As Americans, we have endless crimes to apologize for. We have so much that needs fixing. I want to live in a country that cares. I want to live in a country where dysfunctional patriarchy has been dismantled. It’s the cancer, the cause of all our woes. I want to take care of others, respect differences, and live my life coming from a place of kindness and generosity. There’s plenty to go around. The problem is distribution. So pay into this? I prefer not. Will I have to? I’ll know more in October. I believe the only way to fix this is to burn it down and start over. If we’re lucky enough to get another chance. I became more of an activist in the last 10 years, because of you know who. Since the 11/2024 election, my commitment has increased. The way I’ve chosen to express that activism is by building strong community. My activism is real at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!, the online feminist story slam I created in November 2025. This theme this month is, no surprise, Death & Taxes [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com/p/death-and-taxes-is-it-april-already]. Ten feminist storytellers on one virtual stage. Come listen. Come watch. Come fight. Come tell your stories. I re-launched the Style YOUR Stack website [https://styleyourstack.com] and there’s a great new post about the magic of .gifs in Substackland [https://styleyourstack.com/p/choosy-designers-choose]. Come see what I designed! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe [https://nantepper.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

E.R.A. Now, Dammit! The Replay? Kinda.

A gift to all of you from me, with love. The thing that’s been taking up most of my days. The stories here are phenomenal. I don’t want you to miss it. Scroll past this part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t, because this part’s pretty great. Magic happened. Miracles occurred. Wow. Just wow. This was one of the best story slams I’ve ever participated in. I’m going to jump right in and I’ll tell you what went wrong, first. Then, I’ll move on to all the things that went so very right. Even the thing that went wrong turned into something beautiful. Scroll past this first part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t because this part’s pretty great. But you do you! The thing that went wrong? I forgot to hit record. Really. Really and truly. Didn’t record it. When I shut down our Zoom Playhouse for the night, I expected the video to start downloading. But. NOTHING. My heart jumped when I realized that I didn’t have it. Any of it. This magnificent 90 minutes, gone. A reminder that things are indeed impermanent. And it was a whisper in my ear to stay connected to mindfulness. The funniest part was that when our Zoom Maven, Mel Moseley [https://substack.com/profile/278864321-mel-moseley], and I met before anyone got to the room, we made a special note out loud to each other not to forget to push that little button labeled “Record.” Oops. For me, a miracle occurred. I didn’t go to that horrible place of self-flagellation or calling myself a loser. I didn’t go to a place of blame (though Slamone could have been an easy mark), none of my old stuff came up. I didn’t run to my fridge or pantry to feed the discomfort or shame, because there wasn’t any. Instead, I jumped into action. The larger miracle and a perfect example of how women are able to work together to problem-solve, support one another, and get the job done. I witnessed it in real time. I reached out to every storyteller on Saturday evening, right after the slam to tell them what happened. No one flipped out. Not a diva in the group. And I had a plan. I asked each of them to meet with me, one on one, to record their stories again. From Saturday at 6pm to Sunday at 8pm, (minus a ten-hour break for dinner, sleep, the Sunday NYT Crossword Puzzle and two cups of coffee instead of my usual single, I worked with each storyteller, gathering their words, treated to a private showing and sent off each recording to my video editor and best pal. Everyone involved stepped up, gracious and willing. We all came away knowing how special this show was. Working with each storyteller and putting the show back together with them felt triumphant, similar to the live event we’d just offered to our audience. S**t happens. How we deal with it is up to us. This time around, we don’t have the video of the show in its entirety. To me, that’s another selling point for coming to the live show. Or not. But let me tell you, the people who did come were gifted with an experience that will stay with them for a very long time. I’m sure of it. Almost immediately afterward, I saw that a new paid subscriber. A man. The show was breathtaking. One story after another moved me and gave me goosebumps. At one point, as I hosted, I remarked that I was having simultaneous moments of wanting to scream at the injustices, cry for the pain we as women live with every day, and laugh during the lighter moments that provided balance to the stories told, our lives reflected back to us. You’ll see. Every story was brilliant. Don’t miss the next one. We’re doing this thing! P.S. If you take the time to “like” or comment on the post, please take the extra moment to restack (little spinny icon) this to spread the word to the people who subscribe and follow you. It will help us grow and get the word out to more people who might know we exist. I’m grateful for any boosts you can give. P.P.S. As of March 2026, we were granted fiscal sponsorship from the nonprofit arts organization, Fractured Atlas. Because of that, people can now make tax-deductible donations in the U.S., to support the work of Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, check out the theme calendar, [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com/p/slam-calendar-themes] send me a DM and sign up. We want to share our virtual stage with you. And for the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives. Help this project grow by spreading the word. There are other ways to support this project. We now have a fiscal sponsor, which means that donations made to WBTYS are tax-deductible. If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, send me a DM. We’d love to share our virtual stage with you. For the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe [https://nantepper.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Life Comes Full Circle

Today, I’m a senior citizen. I think it’s hilarious. In Yiddish, I’m an alte kaker. It means old poop. It’s what Katherine Hepburn called Henry Fonda in “On Golden Pond.” They were goyim, they didn’t know the Yiddish. She called him an old poop. I can’t believe I’m this old because I feel like a kid, but that’s what old people say. I’m beyond happy that I’m alive and sixty-five. It’s not my custom to publish on Sunday, but today’s the day. On March 8, 1961, at 9:30 or 10:30, in the morning, not sure which one’s right, I emerged, two weeks late. 5 pounds, eleven ounces. 19” long. Apparently, one of my feet was malformed and had to be casted at birth. I don’t know which foot, they both seem fine. Well, the right one has a bunion, but that’s an old lady thing. I earned it. Almost every year, my mother texts at 12:01am to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. I’ve never told her how sweet I think that is. Please don’t tell her I said that. Every year she tells me she was in labor for 14 hours as if it was some Guinness World Record. I only asked her once if it was exciting to see me come out. Why did I ask only once? Because she missed that part; she opted for the drugs. My feelings were hurt, though in retrospect, I would have opted for the drugs, too. Never tell her I said that. Every year, my mother tells me I was born during a huge snowstorm. She told me the storm was a blizzard. She said it was so bad, my father couldn’t make it to the hospital. My mother has a reputation for being the queen of hyperbole (as an aside, it’s possible I may be the princess. It’s a genetic predisposition). You know what I’m going to say now, right? You don’t? Okay, you’re not going to tell her I said that, either. There was a blizzard in 1961, it wasn’t March, it was February and yielded 17 inches of snow. It’s documented; I looked it up. Today [https://weatherspark.com/h/d/23912/1961/3/8/Historical-Weather-on-Wednesday-March-8-1961-in-New-York-City-New-York-United-States#Figures-ColorTemperature]. On the day I was born, 0.6 of an inch of snow fell, the low was 32º, the high was 41º. It’s documented; I looked it up. It seems hyperbole won the day. But was it hyperbole or was it a lie? Where was my new dad the day I was born? Hmmmm. Not sure I want to know. After all these years, it never occurred to me to look it up until I was writing this post. I have to tell you, I’m not a bit surprised. What IS surprising is I’m not upset. I laughed. That’s important. It means that the feelings of anger and resentment I’ve carried around for most of my life about the dysfunctional family I grew up in are falling away. There are times I think I know too much about the past. There are other times, when I think that the information I do possess has only scratched the surface of all the things I don’t know and will never learn. And today, it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is that I’m here and I’m happy. My life is the life I always wanted. As a storyteller, a memoir writer, facts are important, but what ARE facts? What I rely on, when telling my stories are my impressions of the life I’ve lived and the memories I hold. My interpretation. That’s all I can ever have. Facts are for the weather. When I was a child, someone told me that I was born on a Wednesday. Then they told me that meant I was full of woe. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Wednesday’s child had far to go. I know that one’s for Thursday’s child, but it was true for me, too. I was a sad kid, a sad teenager, and a sad adult, for a very long time. When I heard that I was born on Wednesday, that was the fact, but I took the other piece of information and made that a fact as well. It was my brand. Sad. That’s how I lived for most of my life, carrying this core wound, this core belief. Many of you know from reading my previous stories, that I’ve come a long way. I’ve done hard work to dispel that old belief. I fought for my life. And now, my life is mine. It’s mine. So today IS the happiest day. It’s a good day. Because I can look at the last couple of years and know for a “fact” how far I’ve come, how much I’ve healed. The life I live now is the one I want. Sad isn’t my go-to, and sometimes I still feel sad. But it doesn’t scare me and it doesn’t linger. I embrace the feeling and then move through it to the next one. There’s more pain in resisting the feelings, than letting them come. Sometimes, I have more than one feeling at the same time. And guess what? Feelings aren’t facts. Nothing is black and white anymore. In 12-step meetings, we speak to that, we celebrate when the black and white thinking goes away. Many say they’re grateful to be living in the gray. Not me. I live in the rainbow. It’s a spectrum of feelings, and it’s far more entertaining. Life is vivid when you live in a rainbow. So, I’m not going to hang with you too much longer today (famous last words). It’s my birthday, and I have some work to do before I go hang with my best friend, Jeanne. We celebrate our birthdays together every year. We were born 5 days apart, and a year. I’m the older one. For a long time, I needed to make a big deal of my big day. It meant expensive dinners out, usually French. But if my birthday didn’t feel special enough; if not enough people got in touch, or sent me cards, or got me great gifts and baked me delicious cakes, I’d get depressed. The let-down was enormous. Not anymore. This year, instead of spending a big wad of cash, I’m going to her house. I’m bringing my pups. We’re going to have pizza. That’ll be a treat, because I don’t eat it as much as I used to. She bought me seltzer, my favorite flavor. Plain. It’s Jewish that way. Flavored seltzer? I don’t think so. We’ll probably get high and watch a movie. And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. Because that’s what we do best together. And nothing compares to that particular brand of joy. So, here’s a quick inventory of what I’ve gotten done this past year, because I’m proud of the work I’ve accomplished and the direction I’m heading in. Here’s the list: * Published an essay in [https://therumpus.net/2025/02/25/voices-on-addiction-gotta-light/]The Rumpus [https://therumpus.net/2025/02/25/voices-on-addiction-gotta-light/]. [https://therumpus.net/2025/02/25/voices-on-addiction-gotta-light/] It was my first submission ever. * Got brave enough to submit again, to Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and was rejected! It’s official. I’m a writer. * I’m going to be published in an anthology of essays about mothers and daughters. It’s a real book I’ll put on my shelf. I’ll be in the company of some stellar writers. You’ll see, in 2027. * Writing my first memoir. * Started a GLP-1 and lost a bunch of weight. The weight loss is great, but feeling healthier is the best part for me. I’m loving my still-fat body. If I never lose another pound I don’t care. I’m perfect the way I am. I needed help to get here. Now, I have to get this ass to the gym. That’s the goal for this year. * I’m staying on the medication, because it takes the food noise away, and my A1C is normal. * I go to ACA 12-step meetings. * After 5 years (and quite a few decades) I graduated from therapy. It was time to stop. For now. * Officially retired from web design. Now I can do more graphic design, the part of the job I love the most. * Left a client I worked with for fourteen years. She helped me discover my storyteller self and gave me my first web design job. I realized it was time to do for myself what I’ve been doing for others, for years. * Started Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com]an online feminist story slam. * Applied for fiscal sponsorship through a non-profit arts organization and got it, so now people can support Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com] https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com by making donations that are tax-deductible. * Published a weekly essay for my 2nd year in a row. * Realized that continuing to write a weekly essay is more than I can produce right now, so I’m giving myself permission to write one essay a month and treat my Next Write Thing readers to the video of the monthly story slam. Cutting back was a hard decision. But I want to be good to myself and my readers. * I’m making wonderful new friends and letting go of relationships that don’t serve me. * Axed Zuckerberg and everything Meta, once and for all. I’m not ready to pull the plug on Bezos. I have to be honest about that. * Realized that I’m in love. With being single. * Love who I see when I look in my mirror, and I look at all of me now, not just my face. * Learned how to make and keep boundaries. * Have a solid relationship with Grace, my higher power. * Not afraid of those bullies. You know who I mean. I’ll be damned if I give them the satisfaction. I have a life to live, and lots to do, including fighting the forces of evil, just like Wonder Woman. * Making a difference. * I’m forgiving my family. I never thought I’d get to that place. * My 5-year-old self and my inner teenager are safe and happy. * My inner loving parent is doing a great job. Last, but not least: * I have everything I need and always did. I just had to figure that out. Thank you to all of you who read my stories, comment, and share. You give me more than you’ll ever know. You blow me away. Oh, and the thing I love the most about my birthday? It’s also International Women’s Day. See, I was a feminist from my very first day on the planet and I’ve got the paper to prove it. xoNan Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe [https://nantepper.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Curse of Blessings

There’s a lot to tell you. But first, please take the time (if you haven’t already) to watch and listen to me tell this story. It’s a blessing and a curse. I want to give you the curse of blessings. This recording was originally intended as a gift to my friend, Susan Kacvinsky [https://substack.com/profile/251136184-susan-kacvinsky]. I met Susan, here, on Substack, and she’s an enormous blessing in my life. Yesterday, we spoke of me posting the story, and I said, “Of course, I’ll edit the mentions of you at the beginning and end, and she said I should share it as is. As most of you know, I’ve been deeply immersed in my new project, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com] It’s taking a lot of my time, and I’m in a new kind of heaven. I am firmly planted in my place of bliss, my place of blessings. When I first came to Substack, my experience as a writer was quite limited. It was comprised of writing 1-3 stories a year. Each story was about 500 words long. That’s all the writing I did, on average. 1500 words a year. And it was only for the story slams I loved to perform in. But in January 2024, all of it changed drastically, and instead of writing 1500 words a year, I began writing a minimum of 1500-2000 words a week. I’ve been telling you the stories of my life. Writing on Substack became my first source of bliss. The gifts that come back to me seem without limit. I’ve made new friends and discovered parts of myself I only had the smallest inkling of. Being on the platform has opened me to possibilities I’d rarely entertained, mostly due to insecurity and fear. I’ve let most of that go, but those feelings pop up now and then. And even then, I’m living the best version of the life I always dreamed of. The life of a creative person. My days are filled with love, laughter, colors galore, and lots of heart. And yes, sometimes my life is hard and scary. But I’m not as scared as I used to be. I realized the other day–and I’ll write more about this later–that I truly am a storyteller. I almost prefer that label over the label of writer. Because it’s the whole thing for me. It’s the writing AND it’s the telling. At first, the idea of recording audio was intimidating. But I did it anyway and loved it. The thought that I would ever video myself telling a story was out of the question. I didn’t like looking at my own image. Self-conscious, body dysmorphic, and filled with shame. Thanks to my recovery work, that’s changed, too. Now, I can’t get enough of sharing myself, performing, and boosting others. I’m watching myself evolve in real time. A lot of you have witnessed the changes in me over the past 2 years. Some of you feel like family to me, and some of you, I’ve yet to meet. I feel so blessed. So, briefly (I know, I know, I’m rarely brief) I want to tell you that from this point on, and into the near future, I’ll be writing and publishing one essay a month, and I’ll be posting the story slam videos after each show as a thank to you all of you. The slams are fun and serious and important, especially now, because the slam is feminist-focused at a time when our liberties as women are being taken away and we stand to lose much more. The slam exists as my form of activism, and my commitment to empowering women’s voices and words, and my love of introducing the people I love to other people I love. The thing I most love about the Substack platform is the communities we build together. The sharing of hearts, minds, passion, anger, grief, and beauty that takes place here every day. It’s another curse of blessings. I’m grateful for each and every one of you. I’ve come to believe that gratitude is the thing that keeps me alive and thriving. When I lose sight of my gratitude, things have a tendency to fall apart. We need one another. None of us can do this thing called life alone. Come play with me. Here, on The Next Write Thing, or at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com/] OR both! The next story slam is on Saturday, March 21, at 5pm ET on Zoom. The theme is “E.R.A. Now, Dammit!” Feminism served up for your listening and watching pleasure. And the lineup this time? Amazing. But they’ve all been amazing. Come see the show. It’s $10/ticket [https://www.eventbrite.com/e/era-now-dammit-at-wham-bam-thank-you-slam-tickets-1984048456342?aff=oddtdtcreator] or if you opt in as a paid subscriber [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com/subscribe], you can come to the live show for free and you get 12 shows for the price of 10. Please know, that if anyone wants to go to the show, but can’t swing the price, all you have to do is DM me and I’ll comp you in, always. And everything else, the stories and articles and the video of the show are free at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! [https://www.whambamthankyouslam.com/] This month, our lineup is: Mesa Fama [https://substack.com/profile/50409382-mesa-fama], Ally Hamilton [https://substack.com/profile/27468348-ally-hamilton], Prajna O'Hara [https://substack.com/profile/25021374-prajna-ohara], Jen St. Germain [https://substack.com/profile/220074409-jen-st-germain], Rebecca Mack ☕ [https://substack.com/profile/189536251-rebecca-mack], Wyrd Sister [https://substack.com/profile/288744353-wyrd-sister], Eileen Vorbach Collins [https://substack.com/profile/100443216-eileen-vorbach-collins], Dina Honour [https://substack.com/profile/197565366-dina-honour], Jazmine Becerra Green [https://substack.com/profile/10517838-jazmine-becerra-green], and Abigail Thomas [https://substack.com/profile/2810114-abigail-thomas]. I’ll be telling one, for sure. I hope that Eileen Dougharty [https://substack.com/profile/29453238-eileen-dougharty] and Mel Moseley [https://substack.com/profile/278864321-mel-moseley], will tell theirs, too. xoNan Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe [https://nantepper.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]