Thank you, Elissa. I find your writing about the ways your family has shaped you helpful as I sort through these questions in my own life. Please keep writing what you need to write because there are many of us out here who need to read it.
I find it astounding that anyone would have the audacity to tell you what to write about — and it's not like I don't see wild comments regularly, but really, my mouth fell open when I got to that part. I am beyond grateful you aren't listening. Your writing about your mother, about caregiving, about complicated love and grief, about all of it, has been breathtaking, gut-punching and such a gift. Cheers to you, Elissa. To them? An escort to the door, and may it not hit them on the ass on their way out!
Thank you—But you know this: we live and work in a world where others believe they have the right to tell us what to create, what stories to tell, and what they want to hear. The level of creative entitlement is often shocking.
I couldn't have said it better than Ally. How could anyone think that telling you what to write would be a good idea? But then, "How could anyone..." has become a common refrain these days. Thank the gods that you don't listen to them. This essay is just incredible. The boxes, the envelope stuffed with attempts at your signature, the car fire, the childhood impulse to make things our fault that have nothing at all to do with us, only so our parents feel safer. Phew.
Your essays/newsletters are among the few that I immediately open to read when I see them in my inbox. I value your honesty, your vulnerability, your cooking essays, and your ability to connect things. As a novice writer, I take mental notes!
My mom died at the end of 2021, and I was hit immediately with her loss, though I had maintained thousands of miles between us since I escaped the dysfunctional insanity of my family. Nearly five years later, the grief of her loss comes in unpredictable waves. I have questions and things to still say, so on my solo walks, I chat out loud to my mom.
At 67, I am more curious than angry, more compassionate and less judgmental, and I feel like I am finally dealing with the difficult aspects of my upbringing that shaped the decisions I made for decades. It's a gift to have that willingness to continue our emotional development.
I am a bit appalled at the way people hide behind a screen while typing harsh comments. Brene Brown's quote (I think based on one by FDR) sums up my thoughts.
“If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked on occasion, I am not interested in or open to your feedback. There are a million cheap seats in the world today filled with people who will never be brave with their own lives, but will spend every ounce of energy they have hurling advice and judgement at those of us trying to dare greatly. Their only contributions are criticism, cynicism, and fear-mongering. If you're criticizing from a place where you're not also putting yourself on the line, I'm not interested in your feedback.”
I click on your posts immediately when they drop. I seriously cannot understand readers who try to tell writers what to write. You read the writer, whatever the fuck they are writing about. It’s like the rule in college about choosing the professor, not the course.
Sorting. Sorting. Sorting. The fact that you can write as you sort gives me hope that I might be able to do the same.
Write on. Keep on sharing. I’m here for it as I do much of what you are doing.
This: "I continue to write my essays about my mother because writers search for containers to hold the chaos and the spiritual clutter. That is what we do."
I get it. Deeply. At six I after my mother turned the hot water on full blast in the middle of washing my hair I thought to myself: my real mother was stolen away and this mean mother was put in her place. At school I painted flowers the teacher oohed over. I wrote stories in my head. Containers for the unanswerable childhood questions.
I’m late to your writing but I find your relationship with your mother and the snippets of your life really interesting. Often thought provoking and relevant to my own experience. Thank you
Elissa, you’re my model for writing in a courageous, honest, clear-eyed way about complicated relationships—especially the mother relationship. I admire your singular ability to convey all that complexity and nuance without sentimentality. I loved Motherland and I always appreciate your writing.
This is something I think about a lot. When my brother died of suicide 12 years ago, I blogged about it because, as you say so eloquently: writers "search for containers to hold the chaos and the spiritual clutter." But then my writing slowed down because I was afraid that the suicide would become my entire identity. I've always asked myself, why not just journal? When I lost my dad to alzheimers and Covid in 2020, I was not blogging or writing anywhere, not even journaling, and I realized I had stuff to work out years later when I got on substack. Parasocial relationships can be weird, however, I've gotten so much more support from blog readers and strangers on the internet than my own extended family, rude and nasty comments aside. Maybe there's a balance I'm still figuring out, but we need to keep writing what's in our heart. Yes, some people may not be interested, but others will appreciate your words because it makes them feel seen.
I inserted this today in an essay about me and my mother:
"In 50 years, I witnessed my mother cry three times. The first was April 4, 1968. She hid in the pantry, her back to the entrance as if in a prayer booth. I backed away, left her alone to the ghost in the house. The second time I heard her. I sat alone on the last church pew. Her wail sounded like a convulsion, ricocheting from the church rafters as the casket closed on her father, January 6, 1980, dead by his own hand. The last time was August 2007, my cruelty the cause."
I'll spare you the story, but will say that it goes on for quite a while because until I tell it, I'm locked in it.
And one last thing. This is why "Permission" had to be written. Thank you.
Elissa I look so forward to your emails ! I “star” them upon receipt while I’m at work to revisit later with a bonus glass of wine- tempted in the moment to escape into them ignoring all work obligations . They are a breath of fresh air -(especially now with all the nonsense out there) - because they’re from your heart - authentic and real . Your stories about your mom - your experiences memories feelings -before and after she passed- and your recipes / garden and grilling stories make me smile and cry and laugh and feel out loud. Thank you!!!🙏❤️
That might be the most compelling line in this, possibly the most compelling essay of yours that I have read, which is saying something. I come here for these lines.
You are such an incredible writer, Elissa. I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling grateful that you share this wonderful, agonizing, chaotic, love bent part of your life here. It’s as authentic as it gets. Thank you.
Thank you, Elissa. I find your writing about the ways your family has shaped you helpful as I sort through these questions in my own life. Please keep writing what you need to write because there are many of us out here who need to read it.
I find it astounding that anyone would have the audacity to tell you what to write about — and it's not like I don't see wild comments regularly, but really, my mouth fell open when I got to that part. I am beyond grateful you aren't listening. Your writing about your mother, about caregiving, about complicated love and grief, about all of it, has been breathtaking, gut-punching and such a gift. Cheers to you, Elissa. To them? An escort to the door, and may it not hit them on the ass on their way out!
Thank you—But you know this: we live and work in a world where others believe they have the right to tell us what to create, what stories to tell, and what they want to hear. The level of creative entitlement is often shocking.
It really is. Still, one would think a person might stuff a sock in it occasionally. It’s you, after all.
LOL
I couldn't have said it better than Ally. How could anyone think that telling you what to write would be a good idea? But then, "How could anyone..." has become a common refrain these days. Thank the gods that you don't listen to them. This essay is just incredible. The boxes, the envelope stuffed with attempts at your signature, the car fire, the childhood impulse to make things our fault that have nothing at all to do with us, only so our parents feel safer. Phew.
Your essays/newsletters are among the few that I immediately open to read when I see them in my inbox. I value your honesty, your vulnerability, your cooking essays, and your ability to connect things. As a novice writer, I take mental notes!
My mom died at the end of 2021, and I was hit immediately with her loss, though I had maintained thousands of miles between us since I escaped the dysfunctional insanity of my family. Nearly five years later, the grief of her loss comes in unpredictable waves. I have questions and things to still say, so on my solo walks, I chat out loud to my mom.
At 67, I am more curious than angry, more compassionate and less judgmental, and I feel like I am finally dealing with the difficult aspects of my upbringing that shaped the decisions I made for decades. It's a gift to have that willingness to continue our emotional development.
I am a bit appalled at the way people hide behind a screen while typing harsh comments. Brene Brown's quote (I think based on one by FDR) sums up my thoughts.
“If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked on occasion, I am not interested in or open to your feedback. There are a million cheap seats in the world today filled with people who will never be brave with their own lives, but will spend every ounce of energy they have hurling advice and judgement at those of us trying to dare greatly. Their only contributions are criticism, cynicism, and fear-mongering. If you're criticizing from a place where you're not also putting yourself on the line, I'm not interested in your feedback.”
Count me as one of the people who sees you have put out a new missive and sets everything aside to read it.
"...no one should dictate what a writer writes, except for maybe an editor or an agent, and often not even then." YES. THIS.
I click on your posts immediately when they drop. I seriously cannot understand readers who try to tell writers what to write. You read the writer, whatever the fuck they are writing about. It’s like the rule in college about choosing the professor, not the course.
Sorting. Sorting. Sorting. The fact that you can write as you sort gives me hope that I might be able to do the same.
Write on. Keep on sharing. I’m here for it as I do much of what you are doing.
This: "I continue to write my essays about my mother because writers search for containers to hold the chaos and the spiritual clutter. That is what we do."
I get it. Deeply. At six I after my mother turned the hot water on full blast in the middle of washing my hair I thought to myself: my real mother was stolen away and this mean mother was put in her place. At school I painted flowers the teacher oohed over. I wrote stories in my head. Containers for the unanswerable childhood questions.
I’m late to your writing but I find your relationship with your mother and the snippets of your life really interesting. Often thought provoking and relevant to my own experience. Thank you
Elissa, you’re my model for writing in a courageous, honest, clear-eyed way about complicated relationships—especially the mother relationship. I admire your singular ability to convey all that complexity and nuance without sentimentality. I loved Motherland and I always appreciate your writing.
This is something I think about a lot. When my brother died of suicide 12 years ago, I blogged about it because, as you say so eloquently: writers "search for containers to hold the chaos and the spiritual clutter." But then my writing slowed down because I was afraid that the suicide would become my entire identity. I've always asked myself, why not just journal? When I lost my dad to alzheimers and Covid in 2020, I was not blogging or writing anywhere, not even journaling, and I realized I had stuff to work out years later when I got on substack. Parasocial relationships can be weird, however, I've gotten so much more support from blog readers and strangers on the internet than my own extended family, rude and nasty comments aside. Maybe there's a balance I'm still figuring out, but we need to keep writing what's in our heart. Yes, some people may not be interested, but others will appreciate your words because it makes them feel seen.
I inserted this today in an essay about me and my mother:
"In 50 years, I witnessed my mother cry three times. The first was April 4, 1968. She hid in the pantry, her back to the entrance as if in a prayer booth. I backed away, left her alone to the ghost in the house. The second time I heard her. I sat alone on the last church pew. Her wail sounded like a convulsion, ricocheting from the church rafters as the casket closed on her father, January 6, 1980, dead by his own hand. The last time was August 2007, my cruelty the cause."
I'll spare you the story, but will say that it goes on for quite a while because until I tell it, I'm locked in it.
And one last thing. This is why "Permission" had to be written. Thank you.
Elissa I look so forward to your emails ! I “star” them upon receipt while I’m at work to revisit later with a bonus glass of wine- tempted in the moment to escape into them ignoring all work obligations . They are a breath of fresh air -(especially now with all the nonsense out there) - because they’re from your heart - authentic and real . Your stories about your mom - your experiences memories feelings -before and after she passed- and your recipes / garden and grilling stories make me smile and cry and laugh and feel out loud. Thank you!!!🙏❤️
the weight of the psychic anarchy that she left me with, and that I don’t know how to carry. “
That might be the most compelling line in this, possibly the most compelling essay of yours that I have read, which is saying something. I come here for these lines.
You are such an incredible writer, Elissa. I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling grateful that you share this wonderful, agonizing, chaotic, love bent part of your life here. It’s as authentic as it gets. Thank you.
🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Yes and yes and yes.