One Year of Vanishing Points
And what I've learned
This month marks one year of Vanishing Points, my weekly newsletter that began as a mix of impulse and an urgent need to figure something out (embarrassingly) in public. What I didn’t expect was how many of you would show up.
I’m beyond thankful. Truly. For the thousands of you reading, writing back, sharing with friends, sending love (and sometimes sharp disagreement) to my inbox—thank you. It has meant more than I can say.
I don’t consider myself a real writer. I think this is because I don’t want to denigrate the art of writing with the things I do. In all sincerity (and truly with not one ounce of false humility), I find myself tiring. I find myself tired of living inside my own brain. It helps when you, the reader, feel that something is real and connective. That keeps me feeling like it’s acceptable for me to continue doing this.
I’m in a changing season of my life. I was recently let go from my job (this time, I must tell you, was actually not 100% my fault), and I truly don’t know what’s next. I’m afraid. But I love to write, and I especially love to write for all of you.
There’s a cynical voice that has lived inside me my entire life, and lately it’s been unbearably loud. Making something work here—as difficult as it can be—gives me a feeling I can only describe as human-ness. It makes me feel connected to strangers I do not know. It’s my poor attempt at speaking to the world, at trying to make such a dark and grim place a little bit lighter.
I’ve had much writing “in the works,” as they say, for years now. I’ve learned enough through disappointment not to get my hopes up. But I will not let myself be soured by the difficulty of the journey, because I know that at the end of the day, I am so lucky to write for any of you.
This may seem trite, and in many ways, it is, and yes, it lives in the shadow of a slightly yucky parasocial reality, but I do have a deep affection for the people who read my work regularly. The ones who reach out to tell me what touched them, what moved them, what made them think differently. Thank you so much for that gift. I hope my writing makes you feel less alone.
Here are a few things I’ve learned this last year:
1. You don’t get to know what matters to people.
Something I spend a week perfecting might get a polite shrug. Something I toss off in a fugue state at 2 AM will get someone saying “this saved my life.” You can’t predict it.
2. Writing is not therapy.
It doesn’t solve anything. It won’t fix you. But it makes things breathable again.
3. You don’t need to write the best thing—just a true thing.
People are smarter than we give them credit for. They know when you’re reaching for something real, even if the craft is uneven. And they know when you're bullshitting them.
4. The internet is still capable of grace.
Not always, not predictably. But the comments, emails, and replies I get remind me that there are people out there trying. That’s more than I expected.
5. It’s okay to not be sure.
I used to think a “real writer” had certainty. A clear voice. A POV. But I’ve learned that doubt can be a kind of compass, if you let it speak.
Here were the most read pieces from this year:
Here were my personal favorites, that weren’t always the most read:
A Relaxing Journey at Target Superstore (this one is paywalled, I am considering re-releasing because it’s honestly one of my favorites… also you should pay)
If you’ve been reading and you’re in a position to support the newsletter financially, I’d be incredibly grateful if you became a paid subscriber. It helps me keep this going—and maybe even growing. But whether you can or not, I’m so glad you’re here.
Lolo, you may not feel like a real writer, but I’m a real reader, and your writing is concise, appropriate, unpretentious and heartfelt. What more can we ask? Please keep going. We need all the lights on.
Thanks for a great year of reading, Lolo. Also you look fly as fuck in that photo. ♥️