Hello, world

I should start by saying that most of the writing on this website will not be like this. Most of it will not be about me at all. But there are about 75 of you here already, and most of you don’t know me, so I wanted to tell you a little bit about myself. Probably the best way to do that is to tell you about my callus, which I have always wanted to show to Anthony Bourdain. And, I hope this isn’t going too far, but I am fairly certain he would have wanted to see it.

My callus is on the middle finger of my right hand, where thousands of pens have rested. It is high on my list of my favorite things about my body. Not because it lives on my flipping-people-off finger — I prefer my left for that — but because it irrevocably proves that I am a writer.

Hold your own right hand up in front of you if you want to follow along. 

To the untrained eye, the finger is malformed. Between my major (closer to the base) and minor (closer to the tip — yes, I had to look that up) knuckles, the finger begins to lean over toward the right like a bent reed. At the minor knuckle, it rotates again, 20 degrees counterclockwise on the axle of my finger bone. The left side of the minor knuckle is callused. When I run my left thumb over this ridge of thickened, tough skin, I can barely feel it. The nerves are dulled, dead, dying. Worn to shreds.

It’s a kind of shibboleth. At least, I think it is. I have never asked another writer to show me their callus, though I have often wanted to. Anthony understood that. He had his own cook-callus, lovingly described in “Kitchen Confidential”: “It distinguishes me immediately as a cook…You can feel it when you shake my hand, just as I feel it on others of my profession. It’s a secret sign, sort of a Masonic handshake without the silliness, a way that we in the life recognize one another, the thickness and roughness of that piece of flesh, a résumé of sorts, telling others how long and how hard it’s been.”

Anthony knew what was up.

In a different time, my callus might have gotten me killed. My parents used to tell me that when new-made Chinese emperors ascended their bloody thrones, their first order of business was to purge dissident scholars. It has always been dangerous, I guess, to say what you think. To identify these traitors-in-waiting, soldiers would examine everybody’s hands, feeling for the callus. This seemed quite a metal way to live and then to die, and I was pleased to notice my finger twisting over the years, proof that I had made myself dangerous too.

This was a romantic notion when I was a little girl without any bills to pay. The older I got, the more I understood how ragged my parents were running themselves to put me — just one person — through life. And so by college I had decided that I would never try to be a working writer. Better to put my efforts into building enough financial stability so that one day, I could buy the time I needed to write. 

This has worked out okay. I have always had health insurance. I have not been laid off yet. Selling one’s pen to a corporation is a pretty stable way to make a living as a writer. The trouble is that after years of writing for others, it becomes challenging to find the words for yourself. 

My callus persisted through all the words that were not my own. She remained, a reminder of all the words that once had been. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I burned out, a few times. And still she remained. You idiot, she said. The world is ending. Write.

So I quit my writing job. I spent the last year searching for my own words. I bought this domain. And now, here you are. This is very exciting. 

Here’s what you are in for: a blog. A blog-ass blog. Media is burning and Twitter is crumbling so I am going to blog. Mainly, it will be researched essays and reporting-lite, but don’t be surprised to find reviews, playlists, short stories, and everything else under the sun.

I think a lot about power. I think a lot about love. And I think a lot about anyone who is not free in this world but is trying to thrive anyway. That is the lens through which I see the world. Mostly, I will be writing about things that interest me and/or bring me joy:

• Pop culture, especially how we engage with fame
• Film and television, particularly romantic comedies, character-driven sitcoms, and my all-time favorite show, Top Chef
• Music, vis-a-vis film and television soundtracks, but also festival culture and the music industry
• Food, the restaurant industry, and French kitchen culture
• Tech, home of the huckster-influencer and the world’s most dangerous people
• New York City, where I was born and raised. Literally anything about New York City. It especially gives joy to correct transplants about New York City — because I was born there. Did I mention that yet?
• Prestige, especially as it relates to the representation industrial complex (a very smart term coined by the very smart Tirhakah Love)

By subscribing, you are signing up to hear from me via email no more than once a month, and probably less. I will send you a roundup of any writing that I think is worthy of email. Otherwise, we are going real old-school with it — you can check the blog if you want to see if there is something new. If you do want to be alerted every time I have a thought, you are welcome to follow me on Twitter, which I am hopelessly and regrettably addicted to.

All that is to say, if you also have a writer callus you are proud of, please tell me about it. We can start a club. Xoxo. See you soon.