Thank you so much.

I don’t know how I’d be getting by without all of your support over here at Substack, where it really feels like the OG mama blog days of the early 2000s and 2010s. I am so grateful to you for subscribing and supporting my work, old and new friends.

I’d like to holler out an especially big shout-out to the folks who are supporting my writing with paid subscriptions. I want you to know that your kind sponsorship is making a huge difference in a really precarious financial time. And I know you’re not all rolling in the dough either. You didn’t have to, but you did, and I wish I could hug you all (free subscribers and paid, equal love).

I’ve been looking for writing and editing work for nearly two years without luck. I know a lot of my old colleagues are in the same bind. It’s a bad time to be an old-school GenX wordsmith. Almost thirty years of the same work, only to end up unemployed, scrambling, and scared. It’s just not right.

I’ll tell you how desperate I am: I took a part-time freelance gig that is harder to talk about than my time writing for Panty Play and Big Butt magazines.

You know who’s looking for writers? AI companies. They need writers and editors to train AI models to sound more human. The irony is not lost on me that quite a number of my old writing clients have turned to AI to do their marketing blog posts and digital communication. And because I am broke and had no backup plan and have emptied out my already meager IRA to pay my lawyer, yup, I’m feeding that beast.

Yes. I do give myself the ick.

But I don’t know what else to do. I really don’t. Go easy on me. I don’t know what happens after the divorce. I don’t know if I’ll lose my house. And right now, this girl’s got dogs to feed and a ballbuster attorney to retain and tuition to pay for a big-ass career pivot.

The porn job felt more noble than the AI stuff — which is really saying something for a workplace where I’d arrive at 8:30 am to find everybody eating bagels and watching, say, a video of a porn star happily taking one of those skinny fire extinguishers up the tush. Or worse items. You’d be amazed. I know I was. Someday, I’ll tell you about all that.

The point is, I’d much rather be writing for you than working with AI, so thank you for your support — and for caring about what I have to say. I’d kind of stopped thinking of myself as a writer for a while there. You’ve all helped me remember that even my bone marrow, when looked at under a microscope, is made up of busy, squirmy little cell-words, all bumping and grinding and trying to link up into the single most perfect sentence known to humankind. You’ve renewed some hope that maybe, just maybe, I should keep at it and get that book out there. (If anyone knows a literary agent, please, please hook me up. Alternatively, if anyone needs an editor or a writing coach to get something off the ground, I know this chick.)

I’m still going to become a therapist. Our collective sanity as a species is definitely heading straight for a cliff, so that’s nice job security there. THANKS 2020s!

I like the idea of doing something AI can’t do, or at least, will never do well. My therapist told me about narrative therapy, a modality where you’re helping your clients tease apart the tangle of story they’ve been born into and rewrite their narrative to better reflect who they really are. I love that concept. I think I’ve been my own narrative therapist for my entire life. And I think therapy and writing will dovetail nicely. Plus I will be a really cute old lady therapist in 4 or 5 years and I can sit for hours in a comfy chair and hold warm mugs of Yorkshire tea and wear shiny red clogs and chunky glasses and have a dog who I pretend is a therapy dog.

You all rock. And Ride or Die Supporters, I’ve started sorting pieces of art from the studio to send you. Will email you again for addresses, I’m not sure I got everyone’s. But didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten.

Big love from Jenny M.