Breaking a long cycle
a very honest dispatch on the tenderness of receiving
Human Stuff is a free weekly-ish newsletter. You’re welcome to share parts of this letter that connect with you on social media, or send to someone you love. Thank you for reading, ‘heart’ing, commenting, sharing, for helping this newsletter continue by being here. In the midst of so much noise, your presence with my words truly means something.
Upcoming events
— Copperfields Books in Petaluma with Kaitlin Soule, 6/12, 7pm
— Womb House Books in Oakland with Carissa Potter, 6/23, 6:30pm
— The Dance Palace in Point Reyes with Sophie Wood Brinker, 6/27, 4pm
My second book has been out for a month now. Early last week, my editor let me know it has sold around 1600 copies so far, give or take. For some, this might be a lot, like more than they could dream of. Part of me feels that way about it — like, WOW! 1600 people have my book in their hands or ears! What a wild gift. What a profound honor. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it. And, as someone with 400,000 followers on Instagram and 42,000 newsletter subscribers, another part of me sees the conversion rate and it feels a bit like a hard pill to swallow. Which leads to a wider exploration of what is no longer working, not just in the world of publishing or the algorithms of social media (both of which impact the expectations and realities of books sales), but in my own psyche and sense of Self. Which leads to a deep breath, a big gulp, and a heaping dose of self-honesty.
I’ve been sharing my writing publicly for nearly nine years, and I still haven’t quite cracked how to make a decent income from all I give. I still struggle with marketing and promoting my work sufficiently, with figuring out how to sell the amount of books one might expect someone with a huge social media following to sell, with talking about my work regularly and not just momentarily. I was so afraid of doing a book tour that I held off on planning any in-person events until after my book came out. I haven’t earned out my first book advance. I still hesitate to create offerings that might allow for more reciprocity, more financial stability, more receiving. I’ve never had a six-figure year. I’ve never done an in-person event. Never done a sponsored post. I don’t quite have systems in place to support the thriving of my work. There are so many things I haven’t let myself do because I am afraid of what it means to notice my life’s hunger cues. Because I am afraid of what being financially secure would disrupt in me. Because I’m afraid of alchemizing these particular fears into something different. Because I don’t know what it would be like to let myself live with more, be seen more, be known more – not just on social media, but through actually offering my life’s work more fully. Because I’m afraid.
And something I’ve noticed is that people seem to love this about me; they love my humbleness and quiet nature, my lack of being In Your Face about what I have to offer, my generosity of spirit, my outpouring of what I have to give, my relatable hesitations, my gentleness, my refusal to participate in predatory forms of marketing. People love someone who gives without asking for much in return. Especially if that someone is a woman. People love someone who doesn’t try to get too big, too bold. People love someone who pretends to not need much. People love someone who keeps their desires right-sized, which, if we’re being honest, means small. I never have more unfollows or unsubscribes than when I share about ways people can financially support my work. And I can so easily mistake the comfortability I’ve found in Less with what I actually desire, which – when I look at my book sales numbers, and my bank account, and the amount of offerings I have, and what I want to both give and receive – is more.
Along with this noticing is the recognition that I have a daughter who is soon to enter a Big-Kid School, who sees what I do with her wide eyes, who watches what I make room for and what I don’t. I have a daughter who understands the world, in many ways, through how I participate in it. Who sees whether or not I let myself move toward what I long for, what I desire, what I need, what I want. Who watches the ways I feed my comfort over my true hunger, physically and spiritually. Who feels the reverberations of the ways I limit myself in this world, the ways my shell remains a home instead of a place to visit when it’s needed. It makes me ask myself, what kind of mirror do I want to be for her? What kind of foundation do I want to lay for her through my own embodiment, through my own willingness to break cycles of being under-nourished? What am I learning about who and how I want to be, and what I need to practice being those things?
Of course, it’s not just about money – it’s also about power, and life force, and community, and belonging. About being perceived. About being seen in my fullness, not just in my stance of humble smallness. About living into the edges of my outline, not as an individual gain but as an offering of all I have to pour into this aching moment. About letting myself be nourished, not as a selfish pursuit but as a path toward more radical generosity, more intentional giving, more wholehearted participation in creating the kind of world I want for my child, for all our children, for all of life. About moving beyond stale fear and into what is real. About disrupting old stories of fitting in and belonging by not standing out, by invisibility, by not being seen trying. It’s about aliveness, really. And in some ways, through this process of sharing my book with the world and what it has revealed about my own self-imposed limitations, I’m being asked to step away from my fear and into my own aliveness in new ways that are so incredibly uncomfortable, and hard, and necessary.
I want to keep writing, to pour into more books, to keep developing my craft, to keep going. And I have gotten so comfortable sharing my heart on social media and in my writing from behind a screen that I’ve neglected creating avenues to receive what I need to live fully so I can keep on giving. I’ve poured so much into one bucket, and now, that bucket is leaking, unable to hold the weight of what I want to offer or what I need to receive in return. I have feared what it would look like to shift things, to truly let myself desire more, to take my work and self and life a little more seriously. I’ve hesitated for so long to create spaciousness for myself to bloom and blossom and expand beyond the confines of sharing posts on social media and free newsletters, beyond not asking for much. And I’m sitting with that familiar itch of knowing something needs to change, and feeling more and more ready to actually move toward it, even as I wobble while doing so.
I share all this in transparency because goodness, I know I’m not the only one. And goodness, it’s a tender thing to reckon with the ways we keep ourselves from moving toward the life we long for. And goodness, it’s a grief-filled gift to finally reach a place of being honest with ourselves about what it is we truly need, and what it is we want to offer, and what it is we need to shift and change in order to get closer to the path that calls us. And goodness, it’s vulnerable to name the things that often swirl quietly inside, out loud. And goodness, perhaps that’s the only way to remember we can shift directions at any time, hopefully toward our own aliveness and the aliveness of our collective. And goodness, that matters now more than ever.
I didn’t word this perfectly or edit it until it became something profound — there is so much more depth, analysis, and exploration to do here — but I feel an expanse of relief just saying it as it is, as it is still being formed inside. Thank you for receiving.
And thank you, as always, for being here.
△ This website that links the current weather to a Rothko piece
△ Speaking of wanting, here is Joy Sullivan’s elegant words on the topic
△ A book I borrowed from the library and am so moved by
△ I am both annoyed and relieved at how supportive this tool has been
△ This poem I saw on a hike in Point Reyes
With care,
Lisa
Thank you for reading. Everything I share comes from my own heart; this publication, and everything I do, is created without the use of AI.
And to all who have bought the book -- it means so very much, more than you know, and I feel each one of you. In the midst of tending to an industry, your humanity is embedded in my heart. Thank you deeply.
"People love someone who gives without asking for much in return. Especially if that someone is a woman. People love someone who doesn’t try to get too big, too bold. People love someone who pretends to not need much. People love someone who keeps their desires right-sized, which, if we’re being honest, means small." THIS