Will There Ever Be Another You? 😂
On Feral Women, Saggy Middles, and Keeping Your Writing Weird
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“Arugula, she thought. I’m going to die alone in a Scottish castle because people have gotten too good for iceberg lettuce.”
—Patricia Lockwood, Fairy Pools
I howled at this line last week and I hungered for Lockwood’s next novel:
Will There Ever Be Another You?
I think about this question often—especially in relation to my mother.
There were years, I’m certain, she had no idea how much I needed her. We reveled in her. The way she’d swoop in with a plan—“Here’s what we’re going to do…” was practically her battle cry. We would all look around concerned, “Okay, I guess this crazy thing is what we are doing,” and it was usually an adventure.
At times, she seemed completely unhinged—living at the edge of her animal nature, driven by hunger, desire, instinct. She was an unrepentant, joyful hedonist. And yet, she could also be fierce. Craving. Obsessive. Emotionally exacting. A woman trying to make sense of a senseless world in an increasingly uncontainable midlife body and brain.
Will There Ever Be Another You
Lockwood’s next novel is a vertiginous descent into the literary abyss. Complete with a psychedelic cat.
It’s also reminded me that even the best novels suffer from saggy middles. That stubborn narrative bloat. That creeping inertia where all plot points go to die. That moment when your feral, magnificent heroine starts questioning her life choices—and so do you.
I’m in the saggy middle now with a new novel. She’s wild, wounded, midlife, and dangerously close to biting someone. When her lover shrugs her off, he has no idea what he’s sending her back to face. And I don’t mean emotional turmoil. I mean a demon nest and an unresolved trauma loop. As one does.
There are ways around this conundrum.
You know the move. TV loves it.
Start in total chaos: someone’s bleeding, kissing the wrong person, or sprinting from a fire in six-inch heels. High stakes, high drama, one feral choice after another—and bam, we’ve met our heroine in crisis.
Then? Rewind.
Back to the pivotal moment that lit the match.
By the time you catch up to the present, you're fully invested, because she’s not gently wandering into her arc—she’s already mid-conflagration.
Literary folks, of course, hate this.
Too flashy. Too “screenwriter-y.” The general vibe is: start at the beginning, move in a straight line, and for the love of God, do not flash back. Flashbacks drag. They cause whiplash. They suck the life out of stories and confuse your poor reader who—gasp—might have to work a little.
But I say: feral stories deserve feral forms.
It’s one thing to write a character who’s wild, raw, and dangerously close to biting someone. It’s another thing entirely to let the form of your story break free of its leash.
What does that look like?
It looks like structure that snarls. Language that licks its wounds. Chapters that bleed into one another or erupt into song. It’s storytelling that resists decorum. That howls. That knows sometimes the only way forward… is sideways, upside-down, or through the fire. And sometimes, if you are Rachel Cusk, it creeps along the periphery.
Meanwhile, every day feels lately like an exercise in un-breaking publishing—reviving neglected, backlisted titles, making room for banned books, and building a space where women’s voices aren’t filtered or flattened.
We are so deeply grateful to indie booksellers like Books Are Magic for making space for our glorious little books. They remind us there’s still magic in the margins. It’s the most fun ever!
On other days, I feel more like a parade float than a writer. Glittery, inflated, off-course—but still floating. Because that’s the thing about collective effervescence: it only works when everyone agrees to show up a little bit weird, a little bit wounded, and ready to share the beat.
It’s that moment when 20,000 people belt out Journey at a Giants game. Or the over one million strong on Boston Common showing up to say yes to Pride and no to ICE. Or when a reader emails you at 2 AM to say thank you for writing the thing that made them feel seen. That’s it. That’s the magic. That’s the why. (Wasn’t it funny how the people who planned Trump’s absurdly boring parade seemed like they’d never been to one? Time to call Macy’s and cue the jazz hands, people.)
It’s also why I keep writing women who refuse to behave. Women who devour lemon cucumbers, straight from the garden and declare cold buttermilk soup “a non-negotiable.” Women who shapeshift. Who grieve. Who claw their way out of the stories they were never meant to survive.
Feral doesn’t mean out of control. It means un-domesticated. Un-silenced. Untamed. And in a culture that keeps asking us to be smaller, quieter, and smoother—there is nothing more revolutionary than keeping your weird, your wrinkles, and your voice.
And Now, That’s Marvelous!
This video broke my brain… the execution is wild!
Pentagram inventing typography as playful as Matilda.
Exquisite branding for Roald Dahl’s IP (a problematic guy, but branding chef’s kiss.)
An owl. A sled. Just trust me.
How to Keep Your Writing Weird in the Age of AI
This one is interesting…
Cool author web tools from Tertulia
Ready-made author sites for $7.99 a month. Sometimes… simple is all you need.
The PJs I am wearing to our launch!
They seem just right. Very… I’m a tired little lady in publishing.
Meanwhile…
All this to say, if you’re writing a weird, messy, midlife, menopausal, misunderstood heroine—keep going. If you’re reinventing the novel as its own feral form—YES. And if you're somewhere in the saggy middle, wondering if this story (or this self) still matters?
It does. You do.
There will never be another you.
With curiosity, mischief, and one very loud guffaw - xoxo - gotham girl
PS - I am a human typo. Amnesty appreciated.
Did you know that my son-in-law has nicknamed me "the snowy owl"? I think it suits me though I hope not to get shot down.
Love this: “It looks like structure that snarls. Language that licks its wounds. Chapters that bleed into one another or erupt into song. It’s storytelling that resists decorum. That howls. That knows sometimes the only way forward… is sideways, upside-down, or through the fire.”