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Hello, Lovelies, how the hell are you?
You’ll be glad to know I FOUND my sleep mask. I no longer resemble the Dread Pirate Roberts every time we are evacuated at 4 am because the Frenchies don’t clean their ovens. (And, yes, they FINALLY cleaned them—huzzah!)
Friends, gather round the Yule log so I can roast myself like a chestnut on an open fire.
I attempted my first old-school Yankee Holiday Swap this week, and yes, I prepared as if it were the Cannes red carpet of gift-giving. I had a VISION: chic pink tomato-scented taper candles—because nothing says Waspy winter joy like a candle that smells like a July garden and is gorgeously pretentious.
Plus, they’re French, because I am determined to be the tomato that no one recognizes as a tomato. Bien Sur!
To seal my triumph, I order wrapping paper adorned with Black Labradors in Christmas bows—a subtle salute to our beloved old dog, Sleeper, and a nod to tasteful, New England lore. Reader: I am prepared to blend in at this event. I am practically an LL Bean catalog with a Substack subscription.
Naturally, everything that is supposed to arrive doesn’t, and what wasn’t supposed to show up for three weeks comes early—with all the grace and timing of Bridget Jones running through a blizzard in her tiger undies.
So, there I am, the morning of the Swap, tearing through moving boxes in my little Boden Christmas frock, surrounded by nothing but bubble wrap and existential dread. In a panic, I grab one of our tote bags, two duplicate vinyls—Sara Vaughan & Dizzy Gillespie in Paris, and a pristine copy of The Clash’s London Calling (we have three?)—and text the host—these would be cool, right? I get the affirmative. Huzzah, I sprint downstairs, hoping the doormen’s wrapping station can save me. (They do it every year for the kids.)
Mustafa, keeper of lobby miracles, looks at me like I’m batty and says,
“We haven’t set it up yet, Miss Jones. We’re still working on the tree?”
I arrive at the party like a Canadian goose that’s crash-landed into Versailles. Everywhere you look… Acres of sumptuous WALLPAPER. It’s as if the walls are wearing a sweater, and everyone is perfect; SO MANY glossy blondes, gifts wrapped in actual materials, not sporting goods packaging. Ladies are exchanging silk scarves, olive oil decanters, hand-blown ornaments, and artisanal hot sauces. Me? I am the wild-eyed Kilgore Trout of a woman with a tote bag full of used culture.
And when the elegant woman with the surgically perfect blowout who draws my swap opens it, the entire room looks around at one another exactly like this:
But, I JEST. The women were amazing and brilliant and funny and not at all judgy. I was Bridget Jones at Christmas, again—tiger knickers and all. But I ALWAYS feel like Bridget at every party—because that’s who I am. Plus, I secretly think they got a kick out of the vinyl. :)
Someday (I tell myself) I’ll get it right. Someday, the candles, the dog paper, and the whole curated persona will all arrive on time. For now, imperfect will have to do. 🎁💋
The sales conference I was moaning about last week? It went… shockingly well. I know—rarely do we get to report non-chaotic news in publishing without a small migraine or a paper cut.
We presented alongside the McSweeney's crew, who are so besotted with every book they publish, you half expect them to propose to their catalog. It’s contagious, the kind of nerdy, wholehearted devotion that reminds you why you got into this mess in the first place. If publishing ever ensmallified in that direction (fewer bloated behemoths, more love-drunk weirdos), the industry just might survive with its soul intact.
Our own eclectic, unruly little list finally landed with a thud of recognition; audio interest, foreign rights inquiries, and whispers from film/TV. Not a moment too soon, as A24 just announced permanent displays in Barnes & Noble. If that’s the cultural weather report, the forecast for small presses with something to say might just be, dare I say—sunny? 🌤📚✨
Kimberly Warner will be at the Woodstock Bookfest in April, and we also forged some killer agreements with an amazing sponsor for the launch of Are You There God? It’s Me, Menopause. We can’t wait to shout the news from the rooftops. Soon, dear readers!
But here’s some other magic: readers who preorder Fallout keep DMing us for Eleanor’s craft talk, and now we’re connecting with their Stacks and lives, which is a complete delight. We’re putting the finishing touches on the craft talk now—so stay tuned!
Not to be outdone, shannon kennedy’s Empress Express book chain is taking shape now. To put yourself on the list, simply email: empressexpress@empresseditions.net
All the while, boundaries are getting clearer. Sales realities are coming into focus. We’re learning how to build the house while the chimney flies off.
And Netflix swallowing whole catalogs? A long-lost piece of nostalgia. My grandfather’s first job was on the Warner lot as a set carpenter, then a cameraman... It’s where he met my grandmother, Ellen Warner... He could never watch a film without seeing it in all its parts, as if it were a blueprint of light deconstructing itself frame by frame. In its heyday, Warner Bros. was known for gritty, socially conscious gangster films, tough stars like James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart, pioneering sound technology (the first “talkie”), vibrant Technicolor musicals and adventures (like Robin Hood), and groundbreaking, adult-oriented animation (Looney Tunes), all while tackling real-world issues and taking bold political stances, making it the “dark studio” with a conscience in classic Hollywood. I’ve been peeved these past years about what CEO David Zaslav has done to Warner’s back catalog... I can only hope that some of the classics that were retired are finally brought back into rotation, as they’re such an integral part of our cultural history. One that deserves real caretakers and evangelists, not mere content hoarders and algorithmic blandifiers. 📽💔
In any case, somewhere between Yankee Swap fiascos, menopausal book launches, back-ordered hardcovers, and vanished film history… this strange adventure just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser.
Until next time, may your gifts arrive on schedule, your wrapping paper exist in this dimension, and your inner goddess not flee the room in tiger knickers. And if all else fails? Just channel your inner Bridget Jones:
Show up late. Show up weird. But show up anyway — knickers, vinyls, tomatoes, and all.🩲🎁🍅
Cheers, darlings. We’re doing our best — and that is quite fetching, actually.
xoxo - gotham girl
📚🎁 For Unfixed: our holiday sale is pure gratitude economics—buy four for holiday gifting or your book club, and we’ll send a free copy to your favorite Substacker as a thank-you for their inspiration, solidarity, and emergency soul-maintenance.
Gift eBooks… Merry Everything!
PS - I am a human typo. Amnesty appreciated.
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