Toward the Winged Horse: On the Stories That Lift Us

I will resist the narrative of loneliness. I was born for challenges. I have walked through mud under the stars.

At the Farm, we slept in one room. Our bathroom was one large room with no walls. The shower was one large room; everyone showered in that room. We lived in a world without boundaries. Everyone saw everything you did. Everyone knew your life down to its smallest part.

I left the cult without boundaries. In the months after, I babysat in exchange for a room. The child’s mother said to me, “You will need to grow a pair.”

At the time, I thought, “What am I growing a pair of?”

“You are going to need to learn to fight.”

“Who am I fighting?” I asked.

“Everyone,” she said. “You’re at the bottom of the pile. Fight every man that comes close to you. Fight women. They’ll step on you. Don’t trust anyone. Fight.” I thought that she couldn’t be right, but I still remember her face now, the conviction with which she spoke.

I didn’t want to live a fighting life. I wanted to believe I would have a few friends, feel safe with them. In Rebecca Chace’s new book, Talking to the Wolf, she explores this urge. When you’re young, you imagine your friendships will be built on unconditional support, that all people you love will remain family throughout your life. But friendships can fray and fall apart. Friends are precious to me, and as Rebecca writes, losing friends is tragic.

I was a writer who wanted to be great. I dreamed of a literary family where we would all help each other. Instead, I built a press to help other writers succeed. Along the way, I kept meeting other women writers who I wanted to have as friends. Many times, I didn’t recognize the transactional nature of these relationships. When I met with a writer who Red Hen was publishing, my question should have been, “What can I do for your book? What else can I do?” I am someone who serves writers, and I am fortunate to have my own friends outside the writing world. Not enough of them, though. Too few.

What I believe—and tell other writers—is that they need to have a group of people who are their literary champions. This group should be people who keep in touch with them on a regular basis and ask, How is your writing? What can I do for you? What else can I do for you? What else? You are great. You are amazing. You are the best. You are seen.

This is what every lonely writer wants to hear. What I want to hear.

Dancers, actors, filmmakers, and musicians work in tribes. Writers work alone; our connection comes in asking others to read our work and participate in our stories, and that is the magic of a literary press. I want artistic excellence of myself, and I want to run a healthy business, but maintaining a robust non-profit publishing house in Los Angeles is much harder than I had ever imagined. Not impossible. Just tricky.

When I was thirteen at the cult, we went camping. We weighed in. I had an eighty-pound backpack. Then, we hiked in Keds. Now, I am carrying Red Hen up a mountain. It weighs eight thousand pounds. I am barefoot. It is raining. I walk my dogs alone so I can practice screaming. If I were a civilized person, I would stay calm.

This past week, on little sleep, I had to figure out how to pay my executive coach five days after our session. We’ve been tight on money, so I’ve been scrambling. The rule is that I have twenty-four hours to pay her, so I was four days late. She cancelled our next session. I saw her email around midnight. I stood up and walked into the kitchen. The coach was going to save my life. The skylight loosened from the house. It was now 12:30. The stars fell into the kitchen. The coach was going to sort out my life. The windows flew out of the house. Penguins leapt and flew through the open skylights. This coach was going to straighten me up, to get me flying right. I wanted to fly like an angel. The doors flew off the house. I stepped out into the night as if in a dream state. The wind followed the lights down the street. Suddenly, I couldn’t see myself living indoors. I thought I could camp forever. I could live like the swallows.

That night, as I was feeling alone, I thought of that line, Tell me your despair and I’ll you mine. But my despair is not so great. I live in a house. I publish books. Sometimes it feels like a wild prayer keeps us afloat. I have a life. I can make magic. Life outside the house is a good story. The press is a good story. Finding sleep in February is a good story. It’s imaginary, more a fantasy, but fantasy is a well-loved category these days. My story is a great story of family, and I am not forgetting that. I always tell my children to live in a house where they can put their armor down on the front porch. Feel safe inside. I am working on building a story I feel safe in.

In February, I will shift. I will resist the narrative of loneliness. I was born for challenges. I have walked through mud under the stars.

This year, the year of the horse, will lead us to thought partners, to collaborators, to connection, to a transformative gift. We’re already finding them, thanks to the help of our writers and board members, our literary family. We are ready for action.

I am holding out for transformation. I am walking up the mountain with my backpack, step by step. Soon, I will ride a winged horse to the top.