I had to wait until the right time to tell you.

I couldn't have written this letter before the midterm elections. I was too nervous, too fixated, and too worried about the outcome. This letter would have been one long exhortation for you to vote, vote hard, vote your conscience, vote for your life. And I'm sure you heard that somewhere. I had to wait until that passed to know what I wanted to tell you, instead. 

And now I know.

We should read all stories out loud. I know we are living in an age when everyone seems to have a podcast, but there is a good reason for that. Every time I saw a change for the better in the districts and cities all over America, every time a woman of color took office, I thought about the story behind that moment. I thought about her story and how she told it, how she said the words out loud and how folks heard it, how we tell ourselves true. How we all deeply need to hear these stories told in new words and new voices, and how these stories shape the future. 

And now the days are short and the water is rising. Now we light candles and count the days. Now we had into winter and waiting and wanting to be reborn. There is no better time for stories. This is the right time to tell them. I have a few good ones that match the bruised and weary feel of these days, ones that you can read for free, alone or with a friend. 

I was in Salt Lake City earlier this month (as seen above) and I thought a lot about the way we turn stories into real things. We turn them into temples and engagement rings and tattoos and children. Maybe we don't make anything without a story. I had an anthropology teacher who said that the only thing that differentiates humans from other apes is that we make art. They use tools, they have language, they solve problems and have complex social interactions. But they do not make art unprompted. Only we do that. I think about that a lot. 

I read a great book last month called “Every River Runs to Salt.”  I want to tell it to people who are leaving California and to people who are moving here. I want to tell you, no matter where you are, that you should read it. It goes like this: A woman who is part glacier steals the Pacific Ocean and keeps it in a jar. California, Oregon, and Washington show up to try and get it back. Listen, I’ve lived in each of these three states and Jones is exactly correct about who they are, what they look like, and how their gifts are really curses. This is a novella and takes no time at all to slip through your mind lubricated by salty tears and the regrets of the long-dead. Now is a good time for this story, I promise you. 

We've got another Cliterary Salon show coming up this month, and we will be in our new venue for the first time: Oddjob in San Francisco! You can get tickets now, or you can get one at the door since we are not in an illegal speakeasy anymore. You can also write me back and I will put you on the list, no sweat. Our goal for this show is to prepare you to go home for Thanksgiving and have those hard talk. Gods know we all need to. 

​I also have a story coming out from Catapult this month on all the girls I've loved before. Watch for that on the 15th. Street Spirit ran a story from me this month on how I almost died of thirst in a hot RV when I was a teenager. If you're in the East Bay, you can get one from the folks who vend at BART and at Berkeley Bowl.

Stories stories everywhere, searching for the right time to be told. I hope you find your time.

From the first line to the last,

Meg