Networking
I: A Very Online Woman with A Small String of Publications (Me)
Make an Instagram to get followers to get people to read my work.
Post my tits, end up with followers who never read my work.
Wonder if my work is actually my body
Which I have no control over
Which grows less perfect every day
Even more reason to post tits
Last gasp of youth as performance art.
II: A Respected Novelist DMs Me
Novelist: Can I say something?
Me: Stunned this person DM’d me. Wait a day to respond to play it cool. Hope he read my last piece. Hope he’s going to fawn over my use of dialogue and interiority.
Me, 1 day later: Sure!
Novelist: Forget it. I was going to say something nice, but it’s probably not what you were hoping to hear
Me: Fuck. Is this going to be about my body? Or some backhanded compliment about my writing? Say nothing. Let it sit for a day.
Novelist, 1 day later: I’m sorry, are you upset?
Me: No! Curiosity gets the better of me. Just wondering about a compliment I wouldn’t want to hear
Novelist: You’re gorgeous
Me: Shock, relief. Thank God men who are younger than me think I’m still hot. Stab of guilt. Brent thinks my self-promotion is an obvious and smart business move but he would draw the line at this. I’m married
Novelist: Ah man, I’m sorry if it came across that way. I’m not that kind of guy. Thanks for letting me know.
Me: 👍 No worries!
III: Pause, Reflect
Realize I used exclamation points to soften my lack of engagement because [redacted] has more status and power than me. Regret exclamation points, which show femininity. Commonly mistaken for weakness.
Realize I used the thumbs-up emoji because I want to remain professional with a person who I might need in the future, who I might run into at AWP or a reading. Regret thumbs up emoji. [Redacted] gave off weird vibes.
Why am I being so transactional?
Why am I being so weak?
Why am I talking to strange men online?
Would I have acted differently if I was attracted to him?
Defer these unsettling questions by making a Substack to share writing instead of thirst traps;
Keep using Instagram to share thirst traps to get people to look at my Substack.
Get off on “gorgeous.”
Don’t tell Brent.
IV: A Respected Filmmaker DMs Me
Filmmaker: I love your naughty self-portraits. I also shoot nudes
Me: At least this guy gets it’s performance art. At least he’s approaching me like a fellow artist. Also, I love his work. I like that Corpse project you did. You did a great job at making those women look dead.
Filmmaker: Yeah, I rented real medical examiner tables and took them out to the old Manson ranch in Death Valley. I’m excited about your Substack
Me: ❤️ He wants to read my writing!
Filmmaker: Bluesky and Substack allow nudity too.
Me: ❤️ Jesus. I’m 45. There are hotter women all over the internet. How many thirst traps do these guys need? Why did I heart emoji that? Or maybe this conversation really is just about the art?
Filmmaker: You look great, by the way. I’d love to shoot you
Me: 👍 Flattered. Nervous. Want to gain distance but remain polite.
Filmmaker, 1 day later: I’m coming up to LA in early June, after Memorial Day, if you want to grab a drink and talk shop. And I'd love to shoot with you, but no big deal either way! We could meet in between, like Orange County. We can get a hotel room for the shoot.
Me: 👍
V: Pause, Reflect
Genuinely want to be photographed by a real filmmaker
Because that sounds like the type of thing that happens to a real artist.
But I grew up in Orange County
And the idea of dying there
Is too depressing.
Decide against Bluesky
It’s too dystopian.
Turn 46
Debate using Substack for nudes
Because as exhausting as it is to juggle DMs from strange men
How sad will it be
When I’m not even hot enough to get murdered?
VI: The Novelist Slides Back into My DMs
Novelist: Sexy new pics
Novelist, 2 hours later: I guess there is no point in complimenting you.
Novelist, 2 minutes later: You love it when I flatter you, don’t you?
Novelist, 5 minutes later: I’d love to take you out sometime
Novelist, 1 day later: So you’re like “get lost.” You probably think I’m too persistent. My apologies. I will no longer message you.
Me: Block
VII: The Poem
Write a poem
Starring the unwitting men
Who made me a real artist
By participating in my performance art
Striptease
He tells me to strip
My poems of cliches
That my words
Are inherited decoration
Masking blankness
Where meaning should lay:
Remove your dress
Rub out the stars
Slip off your rings
Erase the myth
Take down your hair
Delete the moon
He’s right.
I’m word lazy. Too indulgent
With secondhand imagery.
Hot for obliteration
I shatter the universe with a hammer
Break myself into pieces
Offer him shards one by one
So he can strip them for me:
My torso
The night sky
Half an ear
The goddesses of Rome
An inner thigh.
But with every ribbon he loosens
Diamond he pockets
And sky he darkens
I feel more like he says I should
Flawed, exposed
An Empress with no clothes
Who hides her lack of talent for metaphorical language
Behind an unlimited supply of tarot card references and astrology cliches.
Heat in the fur
Cruel pattern of hands
Now that I’m stripped
He knows I can’t hide
What makes me wet.
I try to gather the pieces of myself together
But he pulls me back on the sheets
Reassembles me roughly
Strokes me past language
This is how he likes me best
Naked
With nothing to say
Before and After Your Show at the Wiltern
You nod toward the VIP area
Outdoor balcony
Ignore your fans
Wrap my legs around your hips
Press me against the railing
Tip me backwards
Like a drink
Hollywood Boulevard
Is upside down
Far beneath
I am spilling
Into palm frond neon
And diner wind
You could toss me over
But you’re hard
Onlookers
Turn you on
Concrete cold
Against my knees
I bare my throat
You unzip
On stage you’re powerviolence
Start a pit, incite a riot
After, in the lobby
We hold hands
Barely
Out front, searchlights
Cop cars, dirty sky
Sirens whir, ghetto birds
Black lace, velvet rope
Keeps me tethered
To your bed
Failed mansion, Los Feliz
My violet head in your lap
Cross swinging from my neck
Bloody nose, king sheets
Egyptian cotton, post-nasal drip
I clean your dishes, feed your cat
I hear the lock
Once I leave
No kiss, no key
You’re careful when
You message me
You don’t want
Your wife to see
Smoggy sky, your loss
Chipped nails, car wash
Dick pics I can’t resist
Waymo, Sugarfish
Fast lane, traffic jam
At LAX we hold hands
You go up, come back down
You like me topless
You like a crowd
Palm Springs, tan lines
Slim Aarons party dress
Hollywood, chaise lounge nudes
David Hockney swimming pool
Botox, frown lines
Speeding ticket, 405
Fire breaks the county line
Open road, mountain pass
State line, river dry
High desert, car crash
Head wound, soft mouth
Spit the asphalt and your blood
Into my open palm
Dark glasses
Busted lip
Las Vegas
Quiet strip
Black out
I wake alone
Empty suite
At the Wynn
