Barefoot in a Cowboy Hat
The night the poets came to town.
Dear reader,
In November, two traveling poets came to the ranch and read their hearts aloud. Our home became their first stop on a month-long tour that spanned thousands of miles. Poetry in commotion for the modern drifter, they said.
Chairs from the kitchen and library were carried across the brick floor of our house and into the hearth. Lucia had made a fire and a pot of soup, and dimmed the overhead lights. The kitchen filled to its capacity as people dipped bread into bowls of hearty broth, pausing between bites to greet whoever wandered in through the back door. The crowd was made up of friends, neighbors, and coworkers, some I had yet to meet, and many who’d also come to share.
As the sun set, we were summoned to find our seats — chair, bench, mattress, or giant beanbag — and settle in. It had been over a year since the last poetry slam at the ranch, and though it was the out-of-towners that prompted us to make a flyer and host again, over a dozen members of our community showed up eager to reveal parts of themselves often kept in the shadows. To begin the evening, Gabriel grounded the crowd by plucking his guitar with a hypnotic rhythm. Kim then read a love letter to her mother, written after her death. Dressed in red from head to toe, tears streaking her cheeks, Abby strummed a simple melody and sang, pleading for the world to change.
And then the poets stood before us, a room overflowing with sleeping dogs, tea drinkers, and heat from the crackling fire. The poets were two city boys who, like the other participants that evening, cared enough to cradle what moved them and put it into words. But I also sensed from them an energy that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Their poetry burnt with raw anger — a jarring contrast to the muted rhythms of life on the central coast of California. Anger – not its usual gatekeepers like sadness, disillusionment, fear, or hopelessness. It was out in the open, uncloaked.
In a few days, the calendar turns to a new year. As I reflect, I’m not focused on what I accomplished in 2024. There will be no recap. Most important is that I survived, and that I’m healthy and sheltered. That’s enough for me.
What stands out isn’t what I did, but what I stopped doing. I stopped drinking alcohol (mostly). That feels like a good thing — something I’ll keep not doing.
I also stopped writing on Substack as much as I used to. But I’m not estranged from writing. I write all the time, just not to you. And it’s not because I don’t miss you — I do.
I think I’ve become estranged from why I write publicly in the first place. I started my Substack because I like to write and because I’m good at it. It was that simple. Like most things before self-consciousness sets in, it was full of curiosity and good intentions. Fun, bold, sloppy, unpretentious — that’s what I wanted.
Then my audience grew. 3,000 readers became 23,000. Book agents started emailing me. My landmate began editing my pieces before I published them, and though he always encouraged me to stay in my lane and not get bogged down by conventions, I started tripping. What began as a creative outlet became about growth, optics, and what publishers look for. I’ve had plenty to say this year, but I’ve found myself holding back. Writing is different when it feels like the thing I should want as a writer (a book deal) is on the line. But what is it I really want?
The night the poets came to town, I think I fell in love with both of them. It helped that one guy was barefoot in a cowboy hat, covered in tattoos, and possibly missing a tooth. As I leaned against the wall with my shoulders back and eyes wide, I felt myself peek out from the safe and shrunken place where I’ve been slumbering. I remembered that what’s clean, polished, cultured, or academic has never been what stirs my soul. I come alive with self-taught grit, with spit on the pavement, with calloused heels, and dried blood on the seam of a pair of jeans.
As I look to the year ahead, I want to remind myself that my Substack isn’t always about doing my best—sometimes it’s just about getting my fingers dirty by myself under the hood of my car. Sometimes it’s about the courage to let the words be what they are. I did name it Unsupervised…
Love,
Anna
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Join me on Zoom for a 5-week accountability container that aims to bring together artists and writers (and anybody else!) who are eager to detox from Instagram in order to quiet the noise, enter the void, and rejuvenate their curiosity.
In solidarity with each other, we can use this time to co-work, set goals, daydream, create, reflect, share, and rest. We can explore what it feels like to be away from the noise, and how our relationship to doing the things we say we want to do evolves.
We meet for five Wednesdays from 9 AM - 11 AM PST (12 PM - 2 PM EST) on Jan. 8, 15, 22, 29, and Feb. 5.
You’re doing great. Remember to rest.
"Most important is that I survived, and that I’m healthy and sheltered. That’s enough for me." I'm right there with you in this. ❤️
And I also love the sentiment in the last paragraph. I'm all for just showing up raw and real versus trying to be good or do your best. I'm here for all of it!
1. Your Substack is the only one I’ve paid for this year. That might not seem like much, but it says a lot to me.
2. Your Substack is the reason I started my own. Even though I mostly write in my native language (still pushing myself to write more in English), and the Russian-speaking audience is quite small, I feel SO MUCH support—and more importantly, power—in this little act. Thank you for that, Anna.
3. While surviving an unexpected Christmas breakup for the last 3 weeks (it gets better!! it really does), I kept thinking of your posts from earlier this year. They helped me a lot.
Love,
a stranger 🤍