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Whenever I open one of these blank pages with the intention of writing some kind of missive, I think: there's quite a bit of space here to say almost anything I'd like. It's a gift to have a space of my own, and I don't take that lightly.
I'm still working on my novel, which is taking up considerable real estate in my mind. I have so many notebooks filled with thoughts and scribblings about this particular project that you'd laugh if you saw them—or maybe you'd be impressed and ask to stack them up to see if they’d be taller than I am. I had a mighty bout of panic last week and emailed my agent, spilling out all my anxieties about having not yet made it to the copyediting stage (could some kind agent out there reassure me that hearing the neuroses of their authors is part of their job description)? I had been told a vague pub date ages ago that made me very freaked out that I wasn't going to meet my deadline—wholly my problem, & not my publisher's, who have been incredibly generous and supportive, considering that my spouse was diagnosed with cancer in 2023 and continues to suffer from complications. I have since been reassured that whatever pace I’m working on is fine, which is good because I am truly working as fast as I can while still writing the book that I want to write.
And yet I want to keep one hand on my Substack so that it doesn't float away. Sometimes the best thing to do is simply check in and share a few things, even when—especially when—it feels like I have nothing particularly profound to offer.
Like this: one of my nieces is obsessed with axolotls. So I found myself poking around the internet, looking to see what kinds of axolotl-related things might be out there—things with more educational value and staying power than your typical throwaway gifts. I was searching for something that builds in creativity and stability, designed for repeated bouts of joy.
As I was researching all this axolotl merchandise for my niece, I realized something that made me freeze in my bed. Dear Reader: I don't actually know what an axolotl is.
I mean, I know what they look like. I know they resemble little pink naked salamanders that appear to be smiling, their external gills waving like tiny underwater feathers. But beyond that basic likeness to a Pokémon? Um… I'll have to get back to you on that one.
I can't decide if this means I've been absolutely foolish, or if this is actually a sign of something closer to magic and wonder—because I've just accepted these creatures for what they appear to be, without needing to categorize or fully understand them. But I also worry that I'm falling into the world of anti-intellectualism, and I remember that it's worth looking things up sometimes.
An aside: I think it would be genuinely funny if I discovered they were completely mythical. Wasn't there a "This American Life" episode over a decade ago about someone who believed well into their 20s that unicorns were real animals? There's something both embarrassing and beautiful about that.
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