Some of you may know that I’ve been contemplating including crowdsourced content or having folks over on my newsletter to switch things up a bit. I’m thinking of calling the series Take me apart - although suggestions are welcome (my brain isn’t fully functioning this weekend).
Read on to learn more about Amy, a dear friend I made on Instagram this year - I’m lucky to know her, learn about her heart and mind, and read her grieving, yet utterly unique and exceptional letters.
D: It’s wonderful having you on my Substack! Tell us a little about yourself.
A: My name is Amy, and I am a writer, educator, and widow. I live in Canada, where it is so cold your nose hairs freeze together, in May. I write about my unexpected and recent widowhood and loss at www.atthebottomofeverything.substack.com and talk about books on Instagram @literaryrunner. If we were to meet in real life, I am taller than you think.
D: What has your daily routine been like lately?
5 AM: Wake, wish I wasn't.
8 AM: Respond to messages. Feel unworthy but grateful to have people to talk to.
9 AM: Take my meds. Brush my teeth. Put my hair up with a Scrunchie that has never been washed.
10 AM: Think about walking on the treadmill. Never actually do it. Think about showering, but do this so infrequently I actually cannot be honest with you about the number.
11 AM: Make herbal tea. Try to write.
12 PM: Sometimes, eat a Lunchable. The kind they make for kids that includes cookies.
1 PM: Cry.
2 PM: Stop crying because my sister comes to sit with me and also because crying all the time around other people tends to make them wish they weren't around you, even if they love you and are too polite to say it out loud.
3 PM: Read, if I can. Or, if I can't, stare out the window.
4PM: Feel afraid, and yet be unable to look away or distract myself.
7PM: Eat dinner with my parents. Watch an action movie to try and keep the night sorrow at bay.
9PM: Take my meds. Brush my teeth. Wash my face with water.
10PM: Wish for impossible things, like the weight of his palm on my head, the sound of my name in his mouth, the unconscious certitude that when I woke, he would be there.
D: What’s usually the first thing you think or feel when you wake up and how do you set the momentum for the rest of the day?
What time is it? (Always, 5AM). Then, He's not back. (Always, disappointment).
As to momentum, I don't currently know her. If I get out of bed, it's because some external pressure, such as a doctor's appointment or a friend's call, is prodding me vertical.
D: What prompted you to start writing letters and publishing them for everyone to read?
My therapist directed me to write these letters because most of the time I want my wounds to speak for themselves, but usually, my wounds won't, and since I have an impossible time speaking about my pain to others, I write for my wounds, instead.
I decided to publish the letters because there's a pandemic, and everyone has their burdens, so, this way, my people, and others who might need the words too, can read my letters; but only if they want to, and only if they feel they can, and if they don't feel like they can, or they don't want to, they can do so without me having to know, and so we can all keep loving each other in a terrible time, and perhaps, if we're all very lucky, we will live long enough to love each other in the light, again.
D: What are you currently reading?
I just finished The Summer Book by Tove Jansson; and I am half way through Dune by Frank Herbert; I am starting The Carrying by Ada Limón and have just begun Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi.
D: What books have brought you any kind of respite?
Time Lived Without Its Flow by Denise Riley was (is) exactly what I wanted to read after my husband died. It's unsentimental, crisp, deeply thought through, philosophical, searing, and kind. It is of grief without being about grief. I want more books in this vein, but it is so singular that finding other texts like it is difficult.
D: Have you come across any art recently that resonates with your state of mind?
Yes. Thank God for art.
Thermal by Peter Lanyon
The Silent Seasons - Fall by Will Barnet
Untitled by Haruka Sakagushi
Baby by Emma Amos
Edward Hopper
Complication, 2013 by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye
D: How do you keep your personal creativity flowing?
I read. I make commitments to others that I don't think I can keep, such as saying, "I am going to write you letters every Sunday about what it's like to be a very young widow." I remember that in 2013 millions of people watched Sharknado, a movie where a waterspout pulls sharks from the sea and drops them into Los Angeles.
D: What would you like to ask/tell the readers?
First: thank you for hearing me, for bearing with me, for seeing me. What I am writing about is not easy. That people open up my letters and wade into them and feel their weight alongside me is a gift for which I am tremendously grateful.
Second: film your beloveds doing ordinary things, like brushing their teeth, or cooking risotto, or farting, or saying your name. Save these files. Back them up to The Cloud.
D: Finally, are you going to get the puppy you’ve been contemplating?
My answer leads to a question that conceals a question that is really the answer to your question.
My answer is that my husband and I put ourselves on a waitlist for a puppy in June.
The question is: will I take myself off the list, or not?
The concealed question that is really the answer is: he has to come back to help me housetrain the puppy because he promised me he would, but what if he doesn't?
Amy, thank you for indulging me and collaborating with me on this week’s newsletter. It’s been lovely chatting with you and I can’t wait to work with you on part II soon!
If you’re interested in talking with me or collaborating with me on my Substack — about your art or your writing or anything else you had in mind, please feel free to reach out!
