The Next Write Thing: Real Life Stories by Nan Tepper

On Saturday, September 19, I hosted our monthly story slam at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! The theme was, Who You Calling Disabled?

Very few people attended compared to past events, and I wanted to understand why. I had an inkling that it might be like this when ticket sales didn’t pick up as they usually do in the last couple of days before an event.

During the show I shared my gut feeling about why our audience was so light.

“I think people are afraid of this topic. Disability frightens folks.”

The audience jumped in immediately and agreed, because that’s been our experience of the world when living with a disability.

I know what it feels like to be shunned. My disabilities made me a kinder person––for the most part. The pain of the rejection I endured as a child taught me to see more deeply. The other disability I suffered, helped even more. And even with an insider’s perspective, I was afraid of difference, too. I felt foolish around people with needs that were different from mine, especially the ones that were more obvious. The wheelchairs, the developmental delays. I wanted to say and do the right things, and I was embarrassed to ask what they were, so instead I’d make believe I couldn’t see it. There was even a small part of me that was afraid I’d “catch” the other person’s affliction.

How silly. I was a kid. I think adults act that way, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it.

When we didn’t get the ticket sales I hoped for, it made me wonder if that really was the reason.

On Sunday, instead of working with my video editor to get the show replay posted by Monday morning (our monthly goal), I needed a day or two to contemplate and my editor was sick and needed a day for herself. And I was exhausted. Sunday night was also the beginning of Yom Kippur, the most important day of the Jewish year and I needed to attend services. I needed to sit with the feelings I had about the event, and inquire deeply about how to go forward. I needed to connect with Grace. I needed to review my year.

Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The day my former rabbi preferred to call The Day of At-One-Ment. A more loving definition of a time we come together as a community to look at our ourselves with love and compassion for our human failings. We don’t whip ourselves for our misdeeds while sporting hairshirts that broadcast our shame and inflict even more pain.

Some go to services dressed in white as a gesture of humility. We desire a clean slate, an annual fresh start. We want to be held in the holier vision God intends for us. The practice is also linked to the garment that’s customary in Jewish burial. A white shroud. A plea for purity as the transition from life to death takes place.

The idea of a fresh slate when I was a self-critical kid felt like a very convenient loophole.

Oh? We mess up, we say we’re sorry, and then we get to mess up all over again, year after year? Aren’t we supposed to stop messing up? I was a kid with a black and white view of the world. It’s what I learned from my family, from my teachers, from the world we occupy. I think most people are taught that binary. Good, bad. Up, down. Yes, no. Extremes. Absolutes. But that’s not the whole truth. There’s nuance, too. And there’s grace.

As a kid, I didn’t understand one simple piece. We’re human. We’re flawed. We make mistakes every day. And forgiveness is a necessary element to learning new ways to be.

In the last few years, I added a spiritual practice that works to complement my Jewish identity. My Jewish identity isn’t religious, but it is deeply cultural and spiritual. There’s a big difference.

I adopted a 12-Step practice, and that’s where the concept of amends was added to my self-improvement goals. It’s where I learned an important distinction. The difference between an apology for an undesirable behavior and truly making what program refers to as “an amends.” Though grammatically incorrect and very awkward, (the plural form for addressing a single infraction, amending one’s behavior). I’ve embraced the difference because what it’s called isn’t as important as the action it speaks of.

An “amends” requires a change of behavior. An apology doesn’t come with that requirement or guarantee. An apology without correcting a negative behavior you’re apologizing for is meaningless…except for one detail.

When we make an apology, we’re admitting a wrong we’ve done. We’re opening to the possibility that something in us needs to be fixed. It’s a gentle starting point. The real work comes with the commitment to change.

Change needs to happen everywhere I turn these days. We need to do real work. Look at the world. Look at the mess we’ve made of things. Fixing things is a big job that has to start on an individual level. None of us are perfect.

Back to the service, yesterday. The always-long service. 10 hours of prayer, song, connection, and fasting, with a little afternoon break. I don’t fast. It’s a choice I make and I’m good with it.

When Yom Kippur ends each year, the reading of Torah comes to completion, and we begin reading it again in the new year. A cycle that’s repeated over and over, year after year for thousands of years. God decides who will live and who will die in the coming year. Our names are inscribed in the Book of Life, or they aren’t. It’s not a punishment. It’s just life…and death. The nature of things.

We reflect on where we failed ourselves and each other, and then we begin again. The rabbis conducting the service added something beautiful. An important reminder.

They didn’t want us to only take an inventory of where we fell short in our lives, they also asked that we celebrate our successes; the ways in which we’ve changed and grown. To look honestly at the things we did that contributed to our well-being and the well-being of others. I know I’ve done good work this year. I know there are things I have to fix. I’m living a life I’m proud of. I’m more honest with myself than I used to be.

I spend a lot of time doing for others because it matters to me and it’s part of my morality. I’ve gotten better at owning the errors I make and correcting them as soon as I can. That’s new for me. I’m not as invested in being right in order to save face. I’ve mostly stopped beating myself up. I come from a place of curiosity and I change what needs to be fixed. Not always, but often. I’m human, remember?

I needed yesterday’s services more than I realized when I initially entered the space. I’ve been living a very busy life for the last few years. It got even busier when I started the story slam project almost a year ago. I work every day now. The work has become play (mostly), because I’ve discovered the work that makes me happy and makes a difference. I’m a creator of story and art. I’m a creator of connection and love.

The afternoon services ended with a recitation of the things we want forgiveness for. This happens every year. There are pre-written “infractions” in the established prayer, The Viddui.

We also write our own list of things we want forgiveness for––especially if we observe in more non-traditional spaces. As we list each failing, the tradition is to beat our chest with a loose fist after each one is uttered. In this congregation we use an open palm instead. That little adjustment, that gentle caress is filled with love and mercy. Every fault begins with, “For the wrong we did before you by…”

At that point in the service, a little miracle occurred.

The rabbi sang the list. As she gave voice to the contributions of the congregants, she got to this one, and Grace showed up for me in that moment, like a gentle lightning bolt and told me maybe I was right about my impression on Saturday at the slam.

For the wrong we did before you for being afraid of others disabilities...

Tears popped from my eyes and wet my cheeks. Because yes. We feel that fear. It’s not uncommon, and Grace was in the room.

I don’t use the word God. I don’t relate to it. Grace is the word I choose instead, because grace depends on me, too. And grace is available to all of us, without the trappings of religion. Big G or little g. It doesn’t matter. It comes in the form of forgiveness, and offers me an opportunity for growth.

Fear IS a completely human reaction. It limits me. I lose so much when I turn away from the things that scare me because I’m trying to avoid the discomfort I don’t want to feel. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid the things that make me uncomfortable. The avoidance often leads me to shame.

I’m not recommending shame; I’m sharing this aspect of my personhood.

There’s Grace that comes when we learn to trust ourselves.

Here’s one more thing I want to share with you before I end. Its weight is heavy on my heart and my soul. It’s scary for a lot of us to be Jewish right now. I don’t talk about it much. A lot of Jews don’t even want to talk to one another, because of the giant elephant wearing the blue yarmulke sitting in the middle of the sanctuary. You know why. So do I. I’ll leave that alone for today. But I will say that everyone in Middle East needs to start making some big amends. Because the behaviors are unacceptable.

I’ve turned away from attending synagogue services in person. Now, I use Zoom instead, because I’m afraid for my safety. Fear is a human response. I don’t like being afraid. I’m giving myself time, space, and Grace to let it go.

I wrote this essay because September is Suicide Prevention Month. I have a history of depression and suicidal ideation.

More than anything I know it’s crucial for those of us who’ve experienced mental illness to talk about it, openly and without shame.

We need to be the example that makes it safer for others to ask for help. We need to come out about it, so others can find us. At the end of the essay, there are links to resources. Please use and share, and if you know of other great resources, share your info in the comments or send me a private message.

I published this story a year ago, when I returned from a trip to visit my brother in L.A. after he was badly injured in a motorcycle accident. When I wrote this piece a year ago, it was the first time I recorded myself on video. It terrified me, but I needed to show myself to tell this story, even with the body shame I still carried.

I’m here today to tell you that I’ve fully embraced being on camera, as the host and creator of Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! Healing from major depression and trauma is possible. It’s doable. I’m living my best life. A life I never imagined.

Don’t give up, you’ll miss the beauty. For what it’s worth, I’d hate that for you.

Kurt Vonnegut hated them; Melville couldn’t get enough of them––he used more than 4000 in Moby Dick. Can you believe there are people who do things like count semicolons in literary masterpieces? Oh, wait. We don’t need people for that, because we have AI.

Virginia Woolf sprinkled Mrs. Dalloway liberally with the winking little buggers, and Gertrude Stein thought they were the same as a comma. What did she know? She barely used punctuation at all and Gertrude is the only one who understood her own writing; I still scratch my head when I try.

The semicolon was invented by the Italian Renaissance printer Aldus Manutius in 1494, and first appeared in his publication, De Aetna. He created it to function as a mark indicating a pause stronger than a comma but weaker than a full stop, serving as a helpful tool to clarify complex sentences for readers.

I’ve never been good at punctuation. Somehow, I got through school without learning the rules of grammar. I try to remember whether to put a period or a comma inside or outside quotation marks. I managed; learning most of what I think I know from being a reader.

I use punctuation primarily as visual cues to myself to pause, stop, or slow down. They’re a form of private notation because I’m first and foremost a spoken word storyteller. You’ll be relieved to know that I’m partially recovered from the felonious overuse of exclamation points. I am, when all is said and done, quite enthusiastic.

It’s sometimes hard to rein it in.

But I have a deep fondness for the semicolon, an intimate connection formed late in life. My infatuation with that very same winking little bugger that Mrs. Woolf loved, has less to do with its function in a sentence––joining two related independent clauses without a conjunction––I have no idea what that means.

My association with the semicolon has to do with being and staying alive. It has to do with living my best life.

If Virginia had used them the way I do, she might have lived longer.

I learned about another use for a semicolon the day before my 60th birthday. I wanted a new tattoo to mark my transition from a very depressed person who took piles of meds for 32 years to becoming a person who was much less depressed and had just completed a slow wean from most of them. I was beginning the experiment of living my life without psych meds.

I made a lunch date with my trusty companion, Ms. Google (we’ve since divorced, because Google). We searched for symbols connected to recovery from mood disorders. Up popped Project Semicolon.

Project Semicolon is a non-profit organization; a compassionate online community that promotes mental health and suicide prevention awareness. It was founded in 2013 by a woman named Amy Bleuel, to honor the memory of her father when she lost him to suicide.

This is why she chose the symbol to represent the mission of the project:

“A semicolon is used when an author could’ve chosen to end their sentence but realized they had more to say. The author is you, and the sentence is your life.”

In the context of someone who suffers suicidal ideation or attempts to take their own life, this is a reminder to carry on, to go forward. To continue living, instead of leaving. A promise of something to come. Something yet to be realized.

In 12-Step programs they say, “don’t leave before the miracle happens.” If we kill ourselves, we never get to find out how the story might have ended, if we stayed.

People began getting semicolon tattoos, as a way to signal a commitment to life, to say, “I’m a survivor,” or know someone who is. To be allies with those who suffer and those who’ve lost their loved ones. To honor the memory of those we loved who did choose to leave.

I found out later that like her father, Amy Bleuel died by her own hand. Her death was a terrible end to a life dedicated to making a difference. To saving lives and taking mental illness out of the closet and into full view.

She had a reason to speak out, to make visible and remove shame from these diagnoses. Her depression caught up with her, overwhelmed her, and claimed her, too.

One more loss among far too many. Another reason to stay visible, to talk about our lives without shame or apology. Amy Bleuel becoming a poster child for mental illness is a heartbreaking example of how insidious depression can be.

So, with this knowledge in hand, and the powerful symbolism of the semicolon, coupled with the appeal of joining an established community of gentle and passionate activists, I set out to design my birthday tattoo.

Even though my design aesthetic is clean and simple I’m never happy doing things the easy way––in this case, I would have opted in for a single semicolon as is the custom––but I decided I wanted a wristband, instead. A tennis bracelet of semicolons. I designed it with 32 of them, to circle my left wrist, one for every year I’d taken meds for mental illness.

I designed the tattoo on the last day of my 59th year and by a stroke of good luck, synchronicity, or Grace, I found a tattoo artist with a last-minute cancellation who inked it with care and love.

I’ve had my tattoo for almost 6 years, and in that time, I’ve bumped into others bearing this symbol of survival and support.

Some of you already know I was in California recently. But I haven’t shared this part of my trip yet. When I landed in Los Angeles, I rode a shuttle to the rental car lot. I was chatting with my seatmates, and we got into a conversation about our tattoos. I love it when people are willing to chit-chat about their tats. I’ve never had anyone say no. Tattoos are a point of pride––badges of honor, filled with meaning. They carry the history of our lives.

We sat side by side, telling our stories, when the bus pulled to a stop, and a horde of people piled on, packing it full. I noticed a young man standing across from us. He was looking at my arms; 2 tats on my left and one on my right.

He smiled at me, I smiled back, wondering if he was going to join us in our conversation, and then we pulled up to our destination.

I suffered the rigamarole required to rent the car, and agitated, tired, and done, (I’d been traveling for hours), I schlepped my luggage out to the lot where I was told my car would be waiting for me.

I walked by a dark blue Toyota baking in the heat. The young man from the bus was sitting in the driver’s seat. He saw me, smiled wide, said a shy hi, and then said, “I wanted to tell you how much I love your tattoo.” Since I have more than one, I wasn’t sure which he was referring to. I was about to ask, when he raised his arm to show me the single semicolon gracing his right wrist.

He blurted, “Oh, I have chills, can I get out and give you a hug?”

I nodded my agreement, and this stranger and I found ourselves gripping each other, hanging on to one another with love. I whispered in his ear,

“Life is full of miracles. Whatever happens, trust that and stay. I will, too. We’re not done here.”

We finished squeezing the stuffing out of each other, and as I walked to my car, I was filled with love and hope. There’s so much goodness all around us. We only have to open our arms and invite it in.

Later, I kicked myself for not offering him my contact information, or asking for his, but really, as an isolated experience it was up there with the best.

I won’t ever forget him.

My tattoos chronicle meaningful passages in my life, they mark transitions, commitments, and victory. They’re messages written on my body that are meant to be read, to invite people in, to remind me of the path of healing I walk every day.

I chose my tattoo because it exactly describes my promise to be in this world. To stay alive, to stay curious, to stay open to possibility. Because I don’t know what will happen next in my life.

What I do know is I don’t want to miss it.

Afterword:

I started writing seriously a couple of months before I came to Substack in 2024. I’ve been holding myself back for most of my life out of fear. I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough to say. I guess I was wrong about that.

I chose the semicolon as my logo as a visual reminder that our stories aren’t over, there’s always more to say. We have to tell our stories. That’s why we’re here.

An after-afterword:

I didn’t share this part last year. It’s important

In 2023, depression paid me a visit again. I acted out, not fully committed to leaving, but flirting with an attempt. And I got scared.Instead of hiding, I asked for help.

I went back on an antidepressant, started telling the truth about what was causing it, though that took some time to realize. Then I began again.

What came through was the me I was always meant to be.

I would’ve missed the best part of my life. When living gets hard, you don’t need to go it alone; ask for help. We’re here.

Thank you for reading, for listening, for witnessing. Sending love to all of you.

Resources:

* Project Semicolon

* Project Semicolon Tattoo Search Find a tattoo shop that offers the tat, often at a discount.

* American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

* National Alliance on Mental Illness

* 988 Lifeline

* Sympathy For the Semicolon, a book review by Mary Norris, The New Yorker

Please feel free to add other meaningful resources in the comments.

Other essays about my encounters with mental illness:

The next story slam is on September 19th, 5pm ET, on Zoom. The theme is: Who You Calling Disabled? Telling stories of disability and our superpowers.

It’s Saturday night in the summer of 1996. I’m in my bedroom in the huge house I’m sharing with 4 other people. It’s a new situation for me. I’m trying it out, but it’s difficult. I don’t like having housemates. I like my privacy and quiet, but the opportunity arose for me when I was looking for housing, and I thought, why not give it a try? At least I’d save some money.

I walk down the hall to the shared bathroom to take a shower before I head out. Sharing a bathroom is the hardest part of this living situation. I take my clothes off and lean in to the stall. As I reach for the knob to turn the water on, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a mass of dark curly hair blocking the drain. My stomach flips and I gag. That hair belongs to the 18-year-old kid who lives down the hall. He turned me on to Rusted Root, and I love him for that, but who raised him? Geez, man, clean up after yourself. I’m not your mother.

It almost puts me off taking a shower. I’m resentful that I have to deal with it, and briefly consider dragging him out of his bedroom and shaming him into mindfulness. Instead, I clench my jaw, try to shove my feelings down, and armed with a handful of tissues and I retch slightly and reach into the shower, turning my head a little––so I don’t have to see––and feel for the bird’s nest below. I grab it, pull it all out, and quickly toss it into the garbage.

“Okay,” I say to myself “try to remember why you’re showering at 8pm on a Saturday night…you’re going dancing.” There’s a new gay club that opened and I want to check it out. Maybe I’ll meet someone, I think to myself. I want to meet someone. Showered and dressed in my favorite club outfit, it consists of my black high-waisted stretch pants with white polka dots, my sleeveless black turtleneck, and to finish the look, my favorite part: a hot pink cropped linen jacket, shoulder pads and all. Yes, it’s very 80s, and it’s the mid-nineties now, but I like what I like, and I think I look hot. I do look hot, dammit!

I get to the club way too early. I can’t help it; I’m not cool that way. There are two other people, and we wander around the open dance floor, avoiding eye contact. We don’t want to acknowledge each other’s awkwardness. It feels so desperate, showing up before the deejay. I roll my eyes at myself, and survey the space. I buy a ginger ale and find a wall to lean against and wait for the other people who are looking for love, or sex, or both, to arrive.

The cute gay boys begin to trickle in, two and three at a time, and the dance floor fills. I’m shy and tense. “Why did I bother?” I say to myself, shaking my head, “I won’t meet anyone tonight.”

I treat myself to a real drink. A shot of crappy bottom-shelf tequila. Slugging it back, I want to feel softer, less stressed. It relaxes me a little, burning my throat as it moves into my bloodstream. I’m not much of a drinker. I rarely have more than one because I have to get myself home.

As I’m spinning possible horror stories in my head about what could go wrong because I’m shy and kind of nerdy, a woman walks in. She’s dressed in white, wearing a v-neck tee-shirt and jeans. She looks like one of those people who don’t need to obsess about the way they present. She looks casually perfect to me. She’s cute. No, she’s beautiful. There’s disco playing, and she’s dancing on a platform. Her hair is blonde, and cut blunt to her jawline. Her teeth are perfect, straight, white, and oh…her smile. Her smile is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s bright, she seems so happy, so self-assured. She’s dancing alone, and projects confidence in her solitude. She seems like she’s in another world. I stare at her from across the room for what feels like a very long time, too long maybe, but I can’t stop watching her. She looks up, coming out of herself to take in the room, scanning the crowd and her gaze lands on me. I freeze inside, but somehow my smile takes hold of my face. I have a great smile too, though my teeth are not as white or straight. It’s a big smile that lights up my face. There are times when I lose control of my smile. It’s authentic, and I can’t and don’t want to shut it down. Smiling makes the rest of me relax a bit, though I can feel my heart beating more quickly than normal.

She sees me smiling and smiles back. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, until my shyness returns and I break the spell, gazing downward. We approach each other from opposite sides of the space and dance together. Between the two of us, there’s an awful lot of smiling going on. It’s fun. We barely speak to each other, it’s so noisy inside. I can feel the bass line pounding, matching my heartbeat. Trying to stay present to the moment I’m in, I can’t help but wonder…what if she’s the one? Ugh. I do this every time. Tied up in futuristic thoughts, I lose track of what’s happening right in front of me.

We agree, wordlessly, to go outside to take a break, and get some air. Leaning against the building we talk. I like her. She’s smart and very, very funny, and she’s got a great laugh. It feels easy and exciting. As we’re chatting, some guy drives by in a rusted-out Buick that needs a new exhaust pipe, and screams “F*****g dykes!” at us. We look at each other and burst into uncontrollable laughter, saying “f*****g dykes” over and over again. It’s hilarious. Swapping phone numbers, I fly home, filled with hope. I’m nervous but I call her the next day. She’s into growing organic vegetables and lives in a tiny antique Airstream on a friend’s farm. She’s got her own plot, and doesn’t pay rent. In the olden days, we’d call her a sharecropper, but that’s hardly okay anymore. I’m a massage therapist. I swap a massage for cucumbers, tomatoes and more zucchini than a family of four could ever eat in a lifetime.

We begin to date, move in together, probably way too soon (not in the Airstream). But this “roommate” is one I can happily share a shower with. It only lasts about a year, I’m not ready for love, I don’t know how to do intimacy, and I leave. But later, after the hurt heals, we become best friends.

Thirty years have passed since the night we met. Sometimes, we tell each other that story, sitting on her deck, drinking water and getting high. We look at each other, and at the same time, yell “F*****G DYKES!” and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Check out my next story slam from Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam!

June 20th, at 5PM ET on Zoom.

Kill the Patriarchy. That’s our plan. Are you in or out?

Featuring the best storytellers ever. Amy Bee Amy Gabrielle Dina Honour Jane Trombley Dana Laquidara Jane McGuinness ProfessorMeredith Soraya Chemaly Susan Kacvinsky TerriSunflower Wyrd Sister Mel Moseley

And….one more thing. On October 17th, I’m producing a Queer Slam for a fabulous change of pace. The theme is Come Out, Come Out, Whoever You Are!

DM me to find out more.

All writers on Substack who identify as queer, trans (male and female), gay, lesbian, nonbinary, and any other way you define yourself that falls within the Q-Zone, come tell your Coming Out story. And Allies? Come support us as audience members.

Here we are again. April 15, 2026. My taxes are due. Your taxes are due. Did you pay them?

I didn’t. Now don’t go getting any ideas about how brave and rebellious I am. Or how stupid. Because to the former, I’m brave and rebellious in my best imagined version of myself. And the latter? No, I’m not stupid. Not at all stupid. I’m just really, really pissed.

For the last 3 or 4 years, I’ve gotten extensions and filed my tax return in October. One reason? I’m a designer, not a bookkeeper. I suck at money.

My accountant rolls his eyes each year as I miss the deadline to send him my profit and loss in time for an April 15th filing date. In October 2024, I promised him I’d file 2024 on time in 2025.

But that promise was made before the results of the last election.

I was going to turn over a new leaf and be a citizen proudly supporting the good works that Kamala talked about during her spirited campaign. I was going to be proud of being an American again. I was going to be part of the tidal change I longed to see. But I didn’t get to do that, because the worst thing possible happened. FOR A SECOND TIME.

The first time? That was just a dry run.

Now, the worst is happening every single day. I want NO PART OF IT.

I wrote a story in my head.

Here it is: Every American refuses to pay federal taxes, either escrowing the money or sending more to the states we reside in.

They want to scare us with government shutdowns? No. I want to scare them with a massive shutdown created by the citizens that elected the charlatans who need to be reminded that they work for us.

They are civil servants. Not civil oligarchs.

Want to paralyze the military? Stop paying federal taxes. Hold them hostage for a change.

Bring it all to a halt. Overwhelm this travesty of a “government” with so much civil disobedience they won’t know what hit them. They know money talks. That’s a lesson we simple folk need to learn more about.

Boycotts? Meh. Boycott Amazon, Meta, Spotify, Paramount. Small potatoes. Won’t make a dent.

But stop paying taxes? That would create a calamity so enormous that it’s beyond our ability to comprehend the level of gridlock it would cause.

So yes, that’s my fantasy.

Will it happen? Doubt it. Will I do it? Doubt it even more. I’ll file, but I most likely won’t owe a cent. Oh, wait, I mean a nickel. Because there are no more pennies, anymore.

I won’t owe a cent because I’m downwardly mobile. I’m a sole proprietor of a tiny business that barely makes a profit at all. I can pay my bills. My expenses have almost outpaced my income for years. And you know what? I kinda like it like that. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I am stupid.

20 years ago, I met a woman who worked as a maid to keep herself fed, clothed, and housed. She was an educated, spirited tax resistor, mostly because of her anti-war, anti-military beliefs. She only worked for cash. She lived under the radar. Hard to do these days. I was floored to meet someone that brave. I talk a big game, but my imagination is where most of my fights happen and most of my victories, too. I couldn’t imagine doing what she did. Until now.

My argument isn’t rooted in any real knowledge of numbers, economics, or political theory. It’s rooted in anger. It’s my rant. It’s fueled by emotion and common sense. It’s fed by the disbelief that we’re being managed by criminals, rapists, morons, and cowards. And we pay our taxes?

I want no part of this b******t.

The warmongering, the lack of accountability toward United States citizens of every stripe: the destitute, unhoused, the mentally ill, the immigrants fighting for their lives. The people who work three different jobs and still can’t get by. The middle-class, if it still exists at all, and yes, even those with money.

Can you imagine paying into a machine that is systematically destroying the lives of the people who keep this nation going? Yes. Us. We keep it going. What are we getting in return? More debt. Less medical care. Homelessness.

Lies. Reductions in social services. We have more food insecurity, housing shortages, insurance fraud and plunder, failing infrastructure. Our bodily autonomy is being hijacked. Freedom of speech is being dismantled. All of these things are being taken from us and we’re footing the bill.

We’re being stolen from every single day by a monster who’s building ballrooms and golden arches. A monster who’s selling citizenship to the highest bidder. A rapist who’s invading other countries illegally, killing innocents, and pillaging natural resources of his own accord, while breaking one law after another, and not being held to account.

We’re bankrolling our demise. I don’t want to pay for that. Do you?

I’m careful with the little I have and I have a great life. I have a roof over my head that I’ve worked hard to keep and I wouldn’t have this home if my dad hadn’t left me money when he died. I wouldn’t have my simple 1000 square foot ranch if it weren’t for him. My sweet home needs repairs and upkeep. But I can’t afford that. Can you? I don’t need a lot to live a satisfied life that’s filled with gratitude.

I’ve never understood greed, and that’s what this country is built on. It’s not built on kindness; it never was. It grew from a desire to conquer, to overwhelm, to take what didn’t belong to us. That’s America.

Why can’t we be better? Take care of one another? Provide for our basic needs?

I’ve never understood borders. I’ve never understood men who think they have a right to whatever they desire. Conquest. Money. Women. Real estate. It’s never enough. The greed is bottomless. But guess what? The earth is finite. We are finite. We’re burning it down, day after day. What an ungrateful bunch of wretches we can be.

As Americans, we have endless crimes to apologize for. We have so much that needs fixing.

I want to live in a country that cares. I want to live in a country where dysfunctional patriarchy has been dismantled. It’s the cancer, the cause of all our woes.

I want to take care of others, respect differences, and live my life coming from a place of kindness and generosity. There’s plenty to go around. The problem is distribution. So pay into this? I prefer not. Will I have to? I’ll know more in October.

I believe the only way to fix this is to burn it down and start over. If we’re lucky enough to get another chance.

I became more of an activist in the last 10 years, because of you know who. Since the 11/2024 election, my commitment has increased. The way I’ve chosen to express that activism is by building strong community. My activism is real at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!, the online feminist story slam I created in November 2025.

This theme this month is, no surprise, Death & Taxes. Ten feminist storytellers on one virtual stage. Come listen. Come watch. Come fight. Come tell your stories.

I re-launched the Style YOUR Stack website and there’s a great new post about the magic of .gifs in Substackland. Come see what I designed!

A gift to all of you from me, with love. The thing that’s been taking up most of my days. The stories here are phenomenal. I don’t want you to miss it.

Scroll past this part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t, because this part’s pretty great. Magic happened. Miracles occurred.

Wow. Just wow. This was one of the best story slams I’ve ever participated in.

I’m going to jump right in and I’ll tell you what went wrong, first. Then, I’ll move on to all the things that went so very right. Even the thing that went wrong turned into something beautiful.

Scroll past this first part if you want to head right to the stories…but don’t because this part’s pretty great. But you do you!

The thing that went wrong? I forgot to hit record. Really. Really and truly. Didn’t record it.

When I shut down our Zoom Playhouse for the night, I expected the video to start downloading. But. NOTHING. My heart jumped when I realized that I didn’t have it. Any of it. This magnificent 90 minutes, gone. A reminder that things are indeed impermanent. And it was a whisper in my ear to stay connected to mindfulness.

The funniest part was that when our Zoom Maven, Mel Moseley, and I met before anyone got to the room, we made a special note out loud to each other not to forget to push that little button labeled “Record.” Oops.

For me, a miracle occurred. I didn’t go to that horrible place of self-flagellation or calling myself a loser. I didn’t go to a place of blame (though Slamone could have been an easy mark), none of my old stuff came up. I didn’t run to my fridge or pantry to feed the discomfort or shame, because there wasn’t any.

Instead, I jumped into action.

The larger miracle and a perfect example of how women are able to work together to problem-solve, support one another, and get the job done. I witnessed it in real time.

I reached out to every storyteller on Saturday evening, right after the slam to tell them what happened. No one flipped out. Not a diva in the group. And I had a plan.

I asked each of them to meet with me, one on one, to record their stories again. From Saturday at 6pm to Sunday at 8pm, (minus a ten-hour break for dinner, sleep, the Sunday NYT Crossword Puzzle and two cups of coffee instead of my usual single, I worked with each storyteller, gathering their words, treated to a private showing and sent off each recording to my video editor and best pal. Everyone involved stepped up, gracious and willing.

We all came away knowing how special this show was.

Working with each storyteller and putting the show back together with them felt triumphant, similar to the live event we’d just offered to our audience.

S**t happens. How we deal with it is up to us. This time around, we don’t have the video of the show in its entirety.

To me, that’s another selling point for coming to the live show. Or not. But let me tell you, the people who did come were gifted with an experience that will stay with them for a very long time. I’m sure of it. Almost immediately afterward, I saw that a new paid subscriber. A man.

The show was breathtaking. One story after another moved me and gave me goosebumps. At one point, as I hosted, I remarked that I was having simultaneous moments of wanting to scream at the injustices, cry for the pain we as women live with every day, and laugh during the lighter moments that provided balance to the stories told, our lives reflected back to us.

You’ll see. Every story was brilliant.

Don’t miss the next one. We’re doing this thing!

P.S. If you take the time to “like” or comment on the post, please take the extra moment to restack (little spinny icon) this to spread the word to the people who subscribe and follow you. It will help us grow and get the word out to more people who might know we exist. I’m grateful for any boosts you can give.

P.P.S. As of March 2026, we were granted fiscal sponsorship from the nonprofit arts organization, Fractured Atlas. Because of that, people can now make tax-deductible donations in the U.S., to support the work of Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, check out the theme calendar, send me a DM and sign up. We want to share our virtual stage with you. And for the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives.

Help this project grow by spreading the word. There are other ways to support this project. We now have a fiscal sponsor, which means that donations made to WBTYS are tax-deductible.

If you’re a feminist writer with a Substack newsletter, and you want to tell a story at one of our themed monthly story slams, send me a DM. We’d love to share our virtual stage with you. For the time being, anyone who identifies as male is welcome to sit in the audience and hear us tell our lives.

Today, I’m a senior citizen. I think it’s hilarious. In Yiddish, I’m an alte kaker. It means old poop. It’s what Katherine Hepburn called Henry Fonda in “On Golden Pond.” They were goyim, they didn’t know the Yiddish. She called him an old poop.

I can’t believe I’m this old because I feel like a kid, but that’s what old people say. I’m beyond happy that I’m alive and sixty-five. It’s not my custom to publish on Sunday, but today’s the day.

On March 8, 1961, at 9:30 or 10:30, in the morning, not sure which one’s right, I emerged, two weeks late. 5 pounds, eleven ounces. 19” long. Apparently, one of my feet was malformed and had to be casted at birth. I don’t know which foot, they both seem fine. Well, the right one has a bunion, but that’s an old lady thing. I earned it.

Almost every year, my mother texts at 12:01am to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. I’ve never told her how sweet I think that is. Please don’t tell her I said that.

Every year she tells me she was in labor for 14 hours as if it was some Guinness World Record. I only asked her once if it was exciting to see me come out. Why did I ask only once? Because she missed that part; she opted for the drugs. My feelings were hurt, though in retrospect, I would have opted for the drugs, too. Never tell her I said that.

Every year, my mother tells me I was born during a huge snowstorm. She told me the storm was a blizzard. She said it was so bad, my father couldn’t make it to the hospital. My mother has a reputation for being the queen of hyperbole (as an aside, it’s possible I may be the princess. It’s a genetic predisposition).

You know what I’m going to say now, right? You don’t? Okay, you’re not going to tell her I said that, either.

There was a blizzard in 1961, it wasn’t March, it was February and yielded 17 inches of snow. It’s documented; I looked it up. Today. On the day I was born, 0.6 of an inch of snow fell, the low was 32º, the high was 41º. It’s documented; I looked it up. It seems hyperbole won the day. But was it hyperbole or was it a lie? Where was my new dad the day I was born?

Hmmmm. Not sure I want to know.

After all these years, it never occurred to me to look it up until I was writing this post. I have to tell you, I’m not a bit surprised. What IS surprising is I’m not upset. I laughed. That’s important. It means that the feelings of anger and resentment I’ve carried around for most of my life about the dysfunctional family I grew up in are falling away.

There are times I think I know too much about the past. There are other times, when I think that the information I do possess has only scratched the surface of all the things I don’t know and will never learn. And today, it doesn’t matter.

The most important thing is that I’m here and I’m happy. My life is the life I always wanted. As a storyteller, a memoir writer, facts are important, but what ARE facts? What I rely on, when telling my stories are my impressions of the life I’ve lived and the memories I hold. My interpretation. That’s all I can ever have.

Facts are for the weather.

When I was a child, someone told me that I was born on a Wednesday. Then they told me that meant I was full of woe. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Wednesday’s child had far to go. I know that one’s for Thursday’s child, but it was true for me, too. I was a sad kid, a sad teenager, and a sad adult, for a very long time.

When I heard that I was born on Wednesday, that was the fact, but I took the other piece of information and made that a fact as well. It was my brand. Sad. That’s how I lived for most of my life, carrying this core wound, this core belief.

Many of you know from reading my previous stories, that I’ve come a long way. I’ve done hard work to dispel that old belief. I fought for my life. And now, my life is mine. It’s mine.

So today IS the happiest day. It’s a good day. Because I can look at the last couple of years and know for a “fact” how far I’ve come, how much I’ve healed. The life I live now is the one I want. Sad isn’t my go-to, and sometimes I still feel sad. But it doesn’t scare me and it doesn’t linger. I embrace the feeling and then move through it to the next one. There’s more pain in resisting the feelings, than letting them come. Sometimes, I have more than one feeling at the same time. And guess what? Feelings aren’t facts. Nothing is black and white anymore. In 12-step meetings, we speak to that, we celebrate when the black and white thinking goes away. Many say they’re grateful to be living in the gray.

Not me. I live in the rainbow. It’s a spectrum of feelings, and it’s far more entertaining. Life is vivid when you live in a rainbow.

So, I’m not going to hang with you too much longer today (famous last words). It’s my birthday, and I have some work to do before I go hang with my best friend, Jeanne. We celebrate our birthdays together every year. We were born 5 days apart, and a year. I’m the older one.

For a long time, I needed to make a big deal of my big day. It meant expensive dinners out, usually French. But if my birthday didn’t feel special enough; if not enough people got in touch, or sent me cards, or got me great gifts and baked me delicious cakes, I’d get depressed. The let-down was enormous. Not anymore.

This year, instead of spending a big wad of cash, I’m going to her house. I’m bringing my pups. We’re going to have pizza. That’ll be a treat, because I don’t eat it as much as I used to. She bought me seltzer, my favorite flavor. Plain. It’s Jewish that way. Flavored seltzer? I don’t think so. We’ll probably get high and watch a movie. And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. Because that’s what we do best together. And nothing compares to that particular brand of joy.

So, here’s a quick inventory of what I’ve gotten done this past year, because I’m proud of the work I’ve accomplished and the direction I’m heading in. Here’s the list:

* Published an essay inThe Rumpus. It was my first submission ever.

* Got brave enough to submit again, to Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and was rejected! It’s official. I’m a writer.

* I’m going to be published in an anthology of essays about mothers and daughters. It’s a real book I’ll put on my shelf. I’ll be in the company of some stellar writers. You’ll see, in 2027.

* Writing my first memoir.

* Started a GLP-1 and lost a bunch of weight. The weight loss is great, but feeling healthier is the best part for me. I’m loving my still-fat body. If I never lose another pound I don’t care. I’m perfect the way I am. I needed help to get here. Now, I have to get this ass to the gym. That’s the goal for this year.

* I’m staying on the medication, because it takes the food noise away, and my A1C is normal.

* I go to ACA 12-step meetings.

* After 5 years (and quite a few decades) I graduated from therapy. It was time to stop. For now.

* Officially retired from web design. Now I can do more graphic design, the part of the job I love the most.

* Left a client I worked with for fourteen years. She helped me discover my storyteller self and gave me my first web design job. I realized it was time to do for myself what I’ve been doing for others, for years.

* Started Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! an online feminist story slam.

* Applied for fiscal sponsorship through a non-profit arts organization and got it, so now people can support Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! by making donations that are tax-deductible.

* Published a weekly essay for my 2nd year in a row.

* Realized that continuing to write a weekly essay is more than I can produce right now, so I’m giving myself permission to write one essay a month and treat my Next Write Thing readers to the video of the monthly story slam. Cutting back was a hard decision. But I want to be good to myself and my readers.

* I’m making wonderful new friends and letting go of relationships that don’t serve me.

* Axed Zuckerberg and everything Meta, once and for all. I’m not ready to pull the plug on Bezos. I have to be honest about that.

* Realized that I’m in love. With being single.

* Love who I see when I look in my mirror, and I look at all of me now, not just my face.

* Learned how to make and keep boundaries.

* Have a solid relationship with Grace, my higher power.

* Not afraid of those bullies. You know who I mean. I’ll be damned if I give them the satisfaction. I have a life to live, and lots to do, including fighting the forces of evil, just like Wonder Woman.

* Making a difference.

* I’m forgiving my family. I never thought I’d get to that place.

* My 5-year-old self and my inner teenager are safe and happy.

* My inner loving parent is doing a great job.

Last, but not least:

* I have everything I need and always did. I just had to figure that out.

Thank you to all of you who read my stories, comment, and share. You give me more than you’ll ever know. You blow me away.

Oh, and the thing I love the most about my birthday?

It’s also International Women’s Day. See, I was a feminist from my very first day on the planet and I’ve got the paper to prove it.

xoNan

There’s a lot to tell you. But first, please take the time (if you haven’t already) to watch and listen to me tell this story. It’s a blessing and a curse. I want to give you the curse of blessings.

This recording was originally intended as a gift to my friend, Susan Kacvinsky.

I met Susan, here, on Substack, and she’s an enormous blessing in my life. Yesterday, we spoke of me posting the story, and I said, “Of course, I’ll edit the mentions of you at the beginning and end, and she said I should share it as is.

As most of you know, I’ve been deeply immersed in my new project, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! It’s taking a lot of my time, and I’m in a new kind of heaven. I am firmly planted in my place of bliss, my place of blessings.

When I first came to Substack, my experience as a writer was quite limited. It was comprised of writing 1-3 stories a year. Each story was about 500 words long. That’s all the writing I did, on average. 1500 words a year. And it was only for the story slams I loved to perform in.

But in January 2024, all of it changed drastically, and instead of writing 1500 words a year, I began writing a minimum of 1500-2000 words a week. I’ve been telling you the stories of my life.

Writing on Substack became my first source of bliss.

The gifts that come back to me seem without limit. I’ve made new friends and discovered parts of myself I only had the smallest inkling of. Being on the platform has opened me to possibilities I’d rarely entertained, mostly due to insecurity and fear. I’ve let most of that go, but those feelings pop up now and then. And even then, I’m living the best version of the life I always dreamed of. The life of a creative person. My days are filled with love, laughter, colors galore, and lots of heart. And yes, sometimes my life is hard and scary. But I’m not as scared as I used to be.

I realized the other day–and I’ll write more about this later–that I truly am a storyteller. I almost prefer that label over the label of writer. Because it’s the whole thing for me. It’s the writing AND it’s the telling.

At first, the idea of recording audio was intimidating. But I did it anyway and loved it. The thought that I would ever video myself telling a story was out of the question. I didn’t like looking at my own image. Self-conscious, body dysmorphic, and filled with shame.

Thanks to my recovery work, that’s changed, too. Now, I can’t get enough of sharing myself, performing, and boosting others. I’m watching myself evolve in real time. A lot of you have witnessed the changes in me over the past 2 years. Some of you feel like family to me, and some of you, I’ve yet to meet. I feel so blessed.

So, briefly (I know, I know, I’m rarely brief) I want to tell you that from this point on, and into the near future, I’ll be writing and publishing one essay a month, and I’ll be posting the story slam videos after each show as a thank to you all of you.

The slams are fun and serious and important, especially now, because the slam is feminist-focused at a time when our liberties as women are being taken away and we stand to lose much more.

The slam exists as my form of activism, and my commitment to empowering women’s voices and words, and my love of introducing the people I love to other people I love.

The thing I most love about the Substack platform is the communities we build together.

The sharing of hearts, minds, passion, anger, grief, and beauty that takes place here every day.

It’s another curse of blessings. I’m grateful for each and every one of you.

I’ve come to believe that gratitude is the thing that keeps me alive and thriving. When I lose sight of my gratitude, things have a tendency to fall apart.

We need one another. None of us can do this thing called life alone. Come play with me. Here, on The Next Write Thing, or at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

OR both!

The next story slam is on Saturday, March 21, at 5pm ET on Zoom. The theme is “E.R.A. Now, Dammit!” Feminism served up for your listening and watching pleasure. And the lineup this time? Amazing. But they’ve all been amazing.

Come see the show. It’s $10/ticket or if you opt in as a paid subscriber, you can come to the live show for free and you get 12 shows for the price of 10.

Please know, that if anyone wants to go to the show, but can’t swing the price, all you have to do is DM me and I’ll comp you in, always. And everything else, the stories and articles and the video of the show are free at Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

This month, our lineup is: Mesa Fama, Ally Hamilton, Prajna O'Hara, Jen St. Germain, Rebecca Mack ☕, Wyrd Sister, Eileen Vorbach Collins, Dina Honour, Jazmine Becerra Green, and Abigail Thomas.

I’ll be telling one, for sure. I hope that Eileen Dougharty and Mel Moseley, will tell theirs, too.

xoNan

Hi gang! I’m sharing this article with all of you because, oh boy! I’m a star! This post is paywalled on Jess’s site, but you’re getting a sneak preview of the whole article because I love you all….and I want to strut my stuff a bit! Women need to brag more. Okay, Jess Greenwood, take it away, sister!

A message from Jess: This is the first article in my brand spanking new Fascinated series. To see the full write up, you will need to upgrade to a paid subscription. If you’re wondering “What the f**k is this?”, you probably missed last week’s post.

No worries! You can catch up here.

Welcome to Fascinated! A series where I interview people who fascinate me about their work, their why’s, and their what the f***s and share all of that with you. Today, I have the sincere pleasure of introducing you to our first guest, Nan Tepper.

The first thing you need to know about Nan is that you will not get anything past her. She does not stand on convention, she will not let you slide, and she expects that you have a reason for everything you do. Because she does. And, when questioned (or criticized), she’s happy to share said reason. Boldly, but not bitchily. Nan fascinates me because when called to the carpet for anything she’s said or done, she doesn’t lash out, she reaches in. A lifetime of therapy (from talk to shock), a more recent trip through the 12-Steps, and Grace, her name for whatever floats beyond us, has made her an unapologetic advocate for Nan. Where that could easily produce defensiveness or even arrogance, in Nan it comes out through carefully considered words that are meant to do nothing more than share her truth. Your perception is your problem, but she will entertain your perspective all day long.

That is fascinating.

Along with her buddy, Eileen Dougharty, Nan is the originator of Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam!, a virtual version of the live story slams Nan has been participating in for the past several years. The tagline, “1 story. 4 minutes. Zero dicks.” garnered gobs of attention on Substack, the current home of the publication, both the good kind and the party pooper kind. WBTYS (because who doesn’t love an acronym?) is a place for female authors with smaller Substack publications to tell their stories. Men are welcome to watch the Slam, encouraged, in fact, to buy a ticket, although at a higher price than their female counterparts. But, they are not allowed on stage. Zero dicks. Period. The anatomical kind or any other kind.

People felt some kinda way about that.

I knew they would, and if I’m honest, I was cringing behind my computer on Nan’s behalf, waiting for the onslaught of patriarchy to rain down on her parade. It did. And she didn’t care. To her, it’s a joke. With a broader meaning. It’s also her stage. You don’t like the rules? You need not participate. But there was one push back that gave her pause. She picked up her pen and responded in such a beautifully human way that I was, you guessed it, fascinated. If you, too, are feeling some kind of way about dicks and their inclusion or lack thereof, read Nan’s response here.

The care and conviction she showed in this response is when I realized that WBTYS was far more than just a fun project for Nan.

I knew from Nan’s writing on her original Substack, The Next Write Thing, that she struggled mightily with depression for most of her life. We’re talking the ugly, dark, take over your life kind. I also knew that she used to be a person who was afraid to try, her fear of failure or judgment so strong that it overwhelmed any sense of “I might,” “I could,” or heavens to Betsy, “I can.” So, how in the hell do you take someone like that and get them to go on stage to tell a 4-minute story about their life?!? And then entice them to return and do it again?

Nan explains the crack factor here:

Hey, it’s Nan. I’m interrupting this post for a moment to say I’m upgrading to a paid membership because I want to read the rest of Jess’s Fascinated! conversations, because I hate missing out. xo

And this is when I found out Nan was a clown.

Y’all, I couldn’t have been more confused. A what?!? Apparently, in the seventies on Long Island they offered “How to be a clown” summer camp where official Ringling Brothers clowns came to teach kids their craft. I’ll hold off on inserting my disdain for clowns here because they scare the living crap out of me, but whatever. Nan, ever the entrepreneur, saw an opportunity, and promptly got her mom to start schlepping her around the boroughs on weekends to be the paid entertainment for story time at the library. Picture Nan, indignantly avoiding any public demonstration of her talent, hamming it up with some balloon animals and and a bright red nose. I can’t. It’s confusing, right?

I didn’t see that coming, I will admit, but as our conversation continued, it started to make more sense. Nan is a performer at heart. She wants to be the source of people’s feel good, but that didn’t feel possible when she played herself until very recently.

Nan and I got into the body shaming stuff early on in our relationship. As a fat teenager (her) and an anorexic one (me), I understood immediately how her body has gotten in the way of her storytelling, and she sees how my fear of food continues to eat away at my joy.

Nan’s ability to articulate how hurtful her own body has felt to her at times can leave me breathless, the air disappearing from my lungs as if she borrowed my breath, my own truths rolling off of her lips. I felt my eyes prick at her unabashed acknowledgment of the role fatness has played in her inability to fully step into herself, this quote in particular landing right across my solar plexus.

“But as a fat teenager, if I dressed up like a clown, and pretended that I wasn’t me, I could do it. I was somebody else.”

Ugh. That’s sadly not fascinating. Just true.

She’s working on letting that body shaming s**t go, but it still shows up, particularly in her preferred way of performing now. The Story Slam. She hates going up on stage in her body. Podiums are her friend, another place to hide. But, despite the lurking fear of judgment from every body in the audience, Nan takes the mic anyway. She knows that if there’s an a*****e sitting in the audience that’s more focused on her body than her story, that’s on him, not her.

See, this is what fascinates me. The Nan that perseverated over whether her body is good enough to stand on stage is the same Nan that stole her brother’s underwear because she just wanted to wear boys underwear. They were more comfortable, and she liked them better. One q

uestions whether her body has worth and the other values its comfort so much it goes about stealing to make it happy.

I could cop out and say ‘It’s complicated, and so is Nan.” But I actually don’t believe that. I think Nan fascinates me so much because she’s not complicated. Complex…absolutely. But, not complicated. I wonder if that’s because she’s written so honestly about herself that I feel like I understand her complexity, its origins, and how it shows up for her these days. If that’s the case, it’s a testament to her writing, which is, in and of itself, confusing as Nan didn’t become a writer until two years ago.

For most of her life, Nan claims she wasn’t a writer. I stopped myself from inserting the tired argument that “If you write, you’re a writer” because Nan got ahead of me and told me she only wrote about 1,000 words a year for the Slams she participated in up until she joined Substack. Okay, just kidding, maybe you weren’t a writer. Then, how in the hell did you decide in your 60’s that you would go from writing two essays a year to one a week for over two years straight? That’s quite the transition, Nan.

Just jumping in might be a slight understatement, but it turns out that the simple joy of making people laugh in the context of the Slam helped shepherd Nan into the next iteration of herself. One that is, unequivocally, a writer. As she says, “It was an evolution.” Yeah, I’d say. That evolution involved a ton of therapy, medications, and a 12-Step program that Nan credits with saving her life. Going through the program helped her see what a dysfunctional home she grew up in and that her parents were not necessarily intentionally awful or neglectful people, but a product of their own dysfunctional homes. And despite the years of suffering, she’s kinda grateful that she lived the life she lived because its helped her see other people that suffer with compassion…most of the time, at least (her words, not mine).

And, WOW, has it given her an arsenal of stories from which to pull both for the Slam and for her writing.

I wanted to understand how Nan sits with that discomfort in her writing, especially given that she’s a person who does not enjoy discomfort. Nan scoffs at my proclivity for exercise as she loathes “sweating and panting”, and she has a person who does her grocery shopping because who likes going to the grocery store? But, she’s a master at approaching her own psychological discomfort bravely, and from a place of peace. As she says, “When I have a feeling like I want to defend or I’m reactive to something somebody else does, most of the time, I can step away and ask myself what is it about this that’s creating this reactivity in me?”

That’s such a masterful skill, and, unsurprisingly, for Nan, it came from doing the hard work. The personal work. The work that comes when you’re ready to dig through the dirt in order to actually find a clear path. I am just awed by what comes out on the other side when Nan goes through that process of self exploration.

So, because this publication is primarily about joy, I had to ask what brings Nan joy.

Her first response? “Getting into bed at night.”

Welp, yup, that tracks. The comfort thing and all.

Beyond that, her dogs, her cup of coffee in the morning, the NYT puzzle (the only part of the Times she can tolerate anymore), writing, and reading. Friends. And laughter.

Simple stuff. Predictable stuff. Fulfilling stuff.

There’s no wanderlust here. Nan wandered far and wide inside her own life for many years, and now that she’s finally found herself, the biggest blessing she can offer to that self is to stay put. BIG curiosity. Little footprint.

Now that’s fascinating.

If all this talk of dicks and slams has tickled your pickle, check out this month’s Wham! Bam! Thank you! Slam! slated for THIS SATURDAY, February 21st on Zoom. Tickets are still available, and you can laugh your ass off in the comfort of your own home. In your bed, in fact, if you’re like Nan and find joy there. Sweating and panting is not required, so what’s holding you back?

Another message from Nan. I know the names might be hard to read on the graphic, so…here’s the line-up for Saturday: Kari Bentley-Quinn, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sarah Hauser, Kara Westerman (she/her), Amanda Jaffe, Jennifer Silva Redmond, Janine De Tillio Cammarata 🖊️, Kelly Thompson TNWWY, Susan Kacvinsky, Irena Smith, with special appearances by Eileen Dougharty, Nan Tepper, and Mel Moseley. Slamone de Beauvoir, we’re sure, will be missing in action, once more. But her spirit surrounds us. It’s a little creepy, honestly. xo

“Raise your hands above your head, and wave like you’re happy to see me!” she yelled at those of us sitting in the audience. “Wave more! You’re REALLY HAPPY! You’re REALLY, REALLY HAPPY! Tug on your right earlobe, and at the same time, tug on your left earlobe with your opposite hands, while doing the hokey-pokey, and turning yourself around! Jump up and down in your chair but DO NOT stand up, and sing the Declaration of Independence to the melody of Hello Dolly!*

Uh, oh. What did I get myself into? S**t. I hate audience participation exercises. Icebreakers. Warm-ups. Make a decision. Are they cold or are they hot? The audience is all the way in. They’re playing this game and shouting responses; they’re raising their hands and waving like lunatics.

Not me. I’m planted in my seat, arms folded across my chest, resolute in my decision not to play. I paid $25 plus fees to be entertained. I paid $25 plus fees to be a supportive friend. I had no idea I’d be expected to join in. I am not into this. If I wanted to perform, I’d be on that stage.

I’m sitting in the audience. I want to be anonymous.

I hear my brain yammering away, and I nod my head at my predictable resistance. I smile, and try very hard to surrender. A little voice berates me, Lighten up, Nan. Why is this so hard for you?

I’m not all the way in, because if I was all the way in, I might enjoy myself. Isn’t it enough that I bought a ticket for $25 PLUS fees? I left my warm house on a frigid night, because I love my friend Nancy.

I should have noticed the clues when I first arrived; this wasn’t going to be easy. What do you mean, the theater’s upstairs? There’s no elevator? I eyed the stair lift chair and considered hitching a ride. I don’t need help climbing stairs; I’m just lazy and out of shape.

When I get to the second floor, I’m blasted with music so loud, I want to turn around, run down the stairs, and end the evening before it has a chance to begin. Then I wonder if I really have auditory processing issues. That’s what I tell people when I have an overreaction to noise. It’s possible that I’m just a delicate princess rearing my privileged head.

One small consolation was the dish of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I discovered just outside the theater door. Chocolate and peanut butter makes everything better.

I grab an aisle seat. The show hasn’t started but I’m mapping out my exit. My go-bag is packed; I can sneak out right after Nancy’s part of the show. I’ll dash for the door, but I’ll be discreet.

I dig through my bag for earplugs, desperate to lower the volume. They’re useless, the music is so loud. I take a deep breath and invite myself to get over it, already. I settle into my chair, open my mind, and remind my heart why I was there.

“My improv show is tonight,” Nancy wrote in an email that day.

“What? How come you didn’t tell me? Can I come?”

She told me she didn’t invite anyone, and then she sent the link so I could buy a ticket (for $25 plus fees) but I don’t think she was happy about it. I want to go and kvell. Kvell? Yiddish. To feel happy and proud. I want to applaud her.

Performing in this show and taking improv classes is a big deal for Nancy. Not at all within her comfort zone. The show tonight is the culmination of months of classes.

Nancy does brave things all the time. Over the years, she’s inspired me to do brave things, too. Those are stories for another day. All I’ll say is there were elephants, 24-hour flights, and a couple of impulsive puppy adoptions involved.

Braving has become a recurring theme in my life. A welcome one, no matter how uncomfortable the process of getting there has been. Braving offers me an invitation to thrive and live a full life.

And still, before I do something new, my first reflex is to feel scared and want to hide. I yearn to come down with a mysterious flu, a sudden high fever, or a sprained lower back. Here’s a good one: a power outage that makes it impossible to free my car from my garage because of my sprained lower back.

It’s always easier in the moment to opt out, to stay home. It has little to do with reality, and lots to do with shame. The old remnants, the “I’m not good enough to…fill in the blank.” But it’s harder in the long run, because just like credit card interest, shame compounds over time.

So, I get up, put my coat on, kiss the pups, and open my f*****g garage door

Even with all the therapy and 12-step work I’ve done, it seems I still need to go through this process before I can get to my yes. And from what I hear, improv is all about the YES.

The phrase “I’m not good enough,” has escorted me through life, saying things likeYou can’t! Who do you think you are? They’ll laugh at you. Sweet little nothings that do so much harm.

When these feelings come up, I can smile at them more quickly. I say, I hear you; I know you, I understand, but it’s time for you to move along, because I have a life to live. I’ve let you run the show long enough, now it’s my turn to direct.

I sit in the audience, grumbly and uncomfortable. I sit in the audience and watch Nancy do her thing. She plays, she imitates farm animals, makes funny noises, and sings. In 15 years of friendship, I’ve never heard her sing. I didn’t know she could. I watch her meet her discomfort and embrace it. I assume that once this performance is over, she’ll move on to her next challenge. I found out later that my assumption was wrong.

Sitting in the audience, I recall the me I used to be when I was young. I performed as a clown and mime in high school. Wearing clown make-up and a costume made it easier to be on stage, because I was playing someone else. I still dress like Marcel Marceau. I did have a larger capacity for silliness and play, in between the bouts of teenage angst and rage.

I’m dealing with the angst and rage. I have better tools. I want to have fun. I want to laugh and play, even though life and our current state of affairs in this country tamp my desires from one minute to the next. That thought, that I shouldn’t be having fun, while the world is on fire.

The other thing that’s kept me back? My old pal, body shame.

I thought about the bigger-than-life improv actors and compared them to clowns. There are a lot of similarities. I thought about my love for storytelling. I pondered the idea of signing up for the Level One class.

What? What am I thinking?

The woman who led the audience through the warm-ups? She’s the teacher. It’s her school. She’s too loud, this is too physical, I’m too fat. Despite my resistance, I had a funny feeling in my belly. The feeling that improv is my next right thing to do. The next brave thing.

I left the show that night with improv on my mind.

Should I do it? Maybe. I’ll sit with it. What if I hate it? What if I suck at it? I won’t suck at it. What’s the hesitation about? The fear?

The fear is that I’ll be awkward in the fatness of my body. Then this thought came next, What a great opportunity to BE in my body. Fully out there, in front of a roomful of people. To let go of the shame, once and for all.

I went to the school’s website a bunch of times but kept stopping when I got to the payment button. It took me seven days to fill out the application, pay the tuition and set up the interview with the loud lady from the show.

I meet with her today. I’ll keep you in the loop.

In the past year, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight. I’m still fat, and that’s okay. This story isn’t about the pounds that have fallen away. It’s about the weight that lifted because of my recovery work. The weight I’ve carried on my body is the metaphor for what I’ve carried around for decades. The weight of shame and fear. As I shed shame and fear, my body sheds its fat, its armor.

I’m not hiding anymore.

Over the past five years, I’ve met myself in the mirror, at my kitchen table, in my car, in bed, and in mindless trips to my refrigerator and pantry whenever triggers arise. And I’ve met myself in my relationships with others.

The weight of resistance, of carrying false core beliefs, and all the ways I’ve hidden throughout my life, has lifted.

When that weight falls away, I’m left with me, and that’s all I need. Me. Because of the work I’ve done, I’m revealing myself a little at a time. I’m coming out to play. I’ve told you my stories, first recording my voice, then, using video to show my face. Those were brave steps. I’ve startedWham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

And, the next step? The Full Monty. NO, I won’t be naked. I promise it will never go that far. But I’ll be showing all of me, in front of people who are there to cheer me on.

I’m getting on that stage.

*Disclaimer: When I shared this story with Samantha Jones before publication, I asked her if there was anything she’d like me to tweak for the sake of accuracy. She admitted she was slightly horrified at the way I described the loud lady doing icebreakers and warm-ups. Sam wants potential improv-loving audience-goers to be assured that her warm-ups are nothing like the ones I described.

Yes. I was employing that handy tool that writers sometimes use, exaggeration. I’ll do anything to get a laugh. Well, except for the real Full Monty. That’s where I draw the line.

Improv isn’t about being funny, it’s about being free.

Because every human was born to play.

Samantha Jones, Hudson Valley Improv

UPDATE:

I published the above essay last week, about signing up for my first improv class.

That decision was inspired by seeing my friend, Nancy Jainchill’s first foray into the medium, on the night she describes in her essay.

Here’s the piece she wrote that just published today in Sari Botton’s Memoirland.

Brava, Nancy. This piece is amazing, and so are you.

Love you.

Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!’s next show is February 21, 2026. The theme is The Love Boat, our nod to Valentine’s Day.

Ten great storytellers talk about love in four minutes or less. It’s on Zoom!

The lineup:

Kari Bentley-Quinn, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sarah Hauser, Amanda Jaffe. Kara Westerman (she/her), Jennifer Silva Redmond, Kelly Thompson TNWWY Janine De Tillio Cammarata 🖊️, Susan Kacvinsky, Irena Smith, Eileen Dougharty

When I was little, I had two nicknames; “Nancy No-No” and “No, No, Nanette.” My folks thought they were hilarious for thinking up these clever monikers, and took enormous pleasure in taunting me with them for years. Backstory is unimportant, so unimportant that I never learned what it was, though I’m pretty certain (because I’m my parent’s daughter and I’m clever, too) that it had to do with me not wanting to be told what to do or how do it. Maybe I just overstayed my terrible twos…until I was sixty-two.

“No” was an immature defense mechanism or a precocious attempt at individuation at a very young age. As I got older, I became a master at digging my heels in.

My reasoning was based on simple logic:

* No one knows anything I don’t already know.

* No one knows what I need better than I do.

* There is nothing anyone can tell me that could possibly contribute to my growth as a human being.

* The end.

This was my stand:

Don’t tell me what to do, think, feel, wear, eat, read, learn, understand, desire, and definitely don’t tell me how to cut my hair. I was a NO waiting to happen because input from others made me feel small, stupid, and inconsequential. The biggest reason for my resistance was that if I was found lacking, it meant I wasn’t good enough. The worst part? The belief that not being good enough was a lifetime sentence. There was no coming back from it.

The chorus of critical voices boomed in my head.

That belief became my excuse for not trying things that scared me, or that I’d have to work for. I’d dip my toe in for a second and if the water was too cold or too hot or the stroke was too complex, I’d signal the nearest lifeguard to rescue me from drowning in water that was only 2 feet deep. If it felt like I might fail at something, I’d abandon the undertaking before I got started. Quitting as soon as I felt challenged was the only coping mechanism I used. One big fat NO, whenever I felt cornered by fear or doubt. For years I avoided pursuing things that I was interested in because I thought everything I wanted to do should be easy or come naturally.

I compared myself to others, obscuring my ability to see my own worth.

I’d lose interest quickly and walk away if I didn’t experience immediate success. When I peeked at a classmate’s sketches and compared them to mine, it never once occurred to me that the reason their drawings were so beautiful was because they practiced; they drew and drew and drew. It was their passion, it was worth working for. All I could see was a finished product. I never saw the hard parts they might have encountered. I filled in the blanks with foregone conclusions that were based in fiction and an affinity for self-deprecation.

The voice in my head would berate me, reminding me that if I wasn’t born talented, I’d never achieve my goal of the minute. I lacked the insight to see that achievement requires commitment, repetition, teachers, helpers, and time. Instead, I stood to the side, safe, sad, and jealous, while I watched others excel, instantly disqualifying myself. I believed in saving time by saving face before my face required saving. Tidy.

It never occurred to me, not once, that I might succeed.

When it was time for me to go to college, I applied to one school. The school had an open enrollment policy. Everyone who applied got in. The idea of rejection was intolerable to me, and if I had to do this thing called college, I’d avoid the stress and worry that came with waiting for an acceptance or experiencing the heartbreak of rejection. I dodged college application essays and getting dragged from one college campus to another with my mother.

Two weeks into my second semester I dropped out. I had no idea what I wanted to learn and didn’t feel prepared for anything. Nobody told me going to college would help me figure it out. I wanted to be in the adult world, making money, and having lots of sex. There’d be no more homework, no more exams, no more papers. Yay!

The idea of writing term papers was daunting and I was embarrassed to ask for help. Me, the one who was supposed to know everything. To avoid dorm life, I purposely applied to a commuter college because I was too insecure and damaged from years of bullying to live with other students.

My social interactions in junior high and high school were pretty disastrous. I didn’t enjoy being around people my age. If I had to live in a dorm, it wouldn’t be easy to hide.

My father was furious when I told him I dropped out. Sitting on his couch, I was stone. My arms locked over my chest, I barely listened to all the good reasons he had for me to stay in school. Throughout his frustrated tirade, I felt nothing except a determination to win. I steeled myself against my quitter shame, I made believe it wasn’t lurking right near by.

My mind was made up. Nothing touched me. Not his words, not his anger. His concern and love meant nothing to me. I just wanted to win. I wanted relief. To be free of the anxiety I conjured while perseverating on scenarios that might never happen. My thoughts were rooted in the past and in the future. I didn’t have a clue how to exist in real time.

My held conviction was that not trying was better than trying and failing.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Relief never came because quitting fired up my critical voice. The sing-song voice that chanted, “see we were right. You are a loser. Now what are you going to do?” To validate my decisions, I had lists of rehearsed excuses on hand. One thing was certain; I was a huge success when it came to failing in advance of an unknown outcome. Call me Nan “Nip it in the bud” Tepper.

Lack of humility and unearned pride drove my heels deeper until I was mired in the quicksand of my self-destructive machinations. I couldn’t admit until my late 50s that maybe I made a mistake, or two, or ten. As a student, I did well without trying hard; I wasn’t into hard. I was into “please make the pain stop.” I was terrified that utilizing the system I relied on in junior high and high school would fail me in college.

I was that student who’d show up late to school the day a paper was due. I’d be late because I’d write the paper that morning. Please note there were never Cliff Notes involved, and AI was 4 decades away. Never. I might have done better had there been Cliff Notes involved. I may have been a procrastinator, I may have been a bit lazy, or just a teenager, but I damn well had ethics.

I said no to travel, to new experiences, to anything, ANYTHING outside of my carefully crafted comfort zone. Not participating or taking risks was the perfect antidote-in-advance for anything I deemed vaguely threatening.

I spent years avoiding writing because I convinced myself that I couldn’t, even though the people in my life experienced me differently. They saw my potential; they took the time to tell me they saw it. They saw talent. Writing the word “talent” makes me cringe. I had trust issues. Now, those trust issues come up less frequently, but there are vestiges that cling. I get suspicious if someone says nice things about me. My suspicion is that although they’re being kind they really feel sorry for me. Or worse yet, they’re trying to humiliate me and laughing behind my back.

What an awful load to carry.

Because of the work I’ve done in therapy and 12-step recovery I recognize my stubbornness, my need to defend, my fear of new things.When that NO wants to pop out of my mouth, I pause and get curious.

When my NO comes up, after some internal kicking and screaming, I’m learning to shift my perspective. I take a deep breath and ground myself, become more present to the feelings in my body, the tightness in my jaw, the constriction in my solar plexus. I talk to the scared little kid who lives inside of me. I tell her, “It’s okay, hold my hand. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. We can figure this out together.”

Calling myself a writer and doing the work is a triumph for me.

My resistance is my opportunity to learn something new, to examine the flip side of my NO. Where is my YES? Why is it hiding? What am I afraid of? I reach for humility. I embrace honesty. I admit that I don’t know everything. There’s a world outside of my safe little bubble loaded with possibility. Taking more risks, jumping in, is something I’m willing to do. I know I can be afraid of doing something new, and then do it anyway.

I just put the finishing touches (maybe) on an essay that will be published in an anthology. A book. In one year’s time, I’ll hold it in my hands, and see my title and my name in the table of contents. I’ve been working on this essay for months. Months. As I churned, I experienced moments of frustration, moments when I thought I’d never get it done, I’d never get it. I told my story fifty different ways. I wrote and wrote until I got to the core of what I needed to say. I worked with editors who taught me craft, and pointed out my strengths and weaknesses. Nothing stung. Gratitude and willingness took the lead even when I felt the old “this is too hard” tug. I smiled and began again. I learned that the process is the real reward. I finally understood what more seasoned writers mean when they say writing is hard.

I learned that something can be hard but it doesn’t mean it can’t be achieved. I’m not a quitter anymore.

Turning my NO into YES is getting easier. When fear arises, I ask fear if there’s something it wants me to know. I ask fear if it’s trying to protect me by keeping me from living. I assure fear that I’ll protect them. I tell fear to get behind me.

Discernment has taken fear’s place, and fear gets to take a much-needed and well-earned break.

As much as I adore and require alone time, I’m not a hermit anymore, I’m not an island. I let people in. I graciously accept their wisdom and guidance. I ask for it. I ask for help. I show up in vulnerability, my belly soft, my heart seeking.

As much as it lacks the fun alliteration and rhythm, Nan Yes-Yes is a potent nickname.

Paid subscriptions are available for those who can and want to support The Next Write Thing. There are no paywalls here and never will be. If you’re not into subscriptions, please consider making a donation from time to time!

Our firstWham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! show was a great success. Our next show is on February 21, 2026 at 5pmET on Zoom. The theme is “The Love Boat.” Tickets are on sale now, or grab a paid subscription, see all the slams for free, and access the videos later. This is what happened when my “No” turned into “Yes.” I’m living my dreams. Come play. Say yes.

February’s event, The Love Boat, will feature Kari Bentley-Quinn, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sarah Hauser, Kara Westerman (she/her), Jennifer Silva Redmond, Janine De Tillio Cammarata 🖊️, Kelly Thompson TNWWY, Susan Kacvinsky, Irena Smith, Eileen Dougharty, Slamone de Beauvoir. I’ll be telling a story, too.

We have one storyteller spot that just opened up. If you’re a writer on Substack and don’t identify as male (and you’re of a feminist bent), come tell a story. You’ll have fun. You may discover something new about yourself. You might get hooked. Send me a message.