It is 7am when Alison grabs my arm and says to me—
“It’s a solo show. Your book is a solo show.”
I’ve had only coffee and my hair is unbrushed, and it’s perfect for this madcap eureka moment, because I have decided that after 18 months of writing this book, I am going to start over and write it as a play.
I can barely get home fast enough to break out the notecards and post-its to keep up with this thing at the speed of thinking it, which, I will learn, often requires me sending myself emails in the middle of the night with half-formed thoughts, recording sleepy voice memos to myself and hoping I find them again.
I’ve never done a solo show, but more squarely, I’ve never felt moved to do one. I could never land on a story (my story) that wouldn’t bore me, wouldn’t peter out around 20 minutes, wouldn’t end up as some elementary school assembly on why fat kids are secretly very cool.
And now, I have no fewer than 10 drafts of this monolith, as I pack into it what feels like a whole world and lifetime, and yet it runs a comfortable 80 minutes.
My life has changed so fully and radically over 4 years that writing is the only thing that coaxes the new to stand up and take shape, that opens the tap until it’s clear, that gets past the gross ketchup puddle that ruins your fries until it runs thick and red.
Nowhere on social media feels quite right anymore–and that’s mostly because the world is literally hell, but it’s also a little bit because of where I am. Of who I am, now.
My once chatty Instagram has quieted, and I like it that way. I am nearly 40 and can’t bear to TikTok (unless I’m making a horror film specifically for the platform).
I can’t embrace ~*influencing*~ in the middle of genocide, of fascist takeover, of a global pandemic that is still raging. I can’t thrill over ~*a viral thermos*~ when my studio bosses claw their way to replacing artists and actors and writers with customized Instaface AI.
As much as I am woefully unmade for social media, it’s even more obvious in conversation. There is no such thing as small talk in my world anymore–everything is deep, plumbing catharsis scored by Sondheim and Eilish. I can’t ask you where you got your top when my brain is too busy screaming TELL ME EVERY WAYWARD MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE!
Because here’s mine—
4 years ago: I quietly came out.
3 years ago: my entire life went kablooey.
2 years ago: I was homeless and stranded in the Midwest.
1 year ago: I washed back up on the shores of Seaside Heights just in time for the strikes.
And today, I’m freshly divorced, out of the closet, and re-drafting my lifelong blueprints for what I thought was possible within the parameters of my life. Not a single cell in my body is the same as it was 4 years ago, though it feels much closer to my cellular makeup at 17 and 18. Sometimes it aches, more often it’s wonderful, and many times, it simply is.
It’s been torturous and beautiful and agonizing and breathtaking, and it’s a journey I’d be content to keep all mine until I realized–if I’d heard a story like mine earlier, my life would have looked a lot different a lot sooner.
So, here we go: Sugarcoated. I’m happy you’re here.
xx Jen
7 AM epiphanies and reintegrated molecules of being go hand in hand, with coffee.
You go Jen!
Oh, HELL YEAH, Jen! You have always inspired me from afar. ❤️ I'm so looking forward to this era of You!