Money can't buy you love.

Or can it?

Dear Readers,

For the first time in two and a half years, I’m describing what the stack offers and asking for your support at the top of a post. There are new readers who may not know, and I have new ideas in the context of NOW.

What’s the job of a creative writer, I keep asking myself. How do I help expand the lifeboat? What do I say that doesn’t bore you to death with information you already have and doesn’t instruct you about what to do and how to feel?

I think my job is to do what I have always tried to do. To me, the world has never felt that safe or like a place that was looking out for me and the people I care about. I mean women. I will continue to think about how women are organized in the world. You can find out how other people are organized in the world just about any place other than here. I do not think the women of the world can save the world from what is happening to the world, but the women of the world describe it differently. Or I do.

I think my job is to use language in ways that arouse and provoke you and that you won’t find anywhere else.

Other things I can do in this time.

Give out free cookies on Warren Street.

Listen to what people are saying who talk to me.

Try to stir pleasure.

Love the art of other people and tell you how it makes me feel and how it changes the world to have these feelings stirred.

Remember to write whatever I write as a love letter.

If you want to keep playing with me and keep the stack afloat, I need your support. If you are already a paid subscriber or have ever supported the stack, I’m here because of you. I can’t continue without new people taking a turn.

There is no paywall. There will never be a paywall.

Right now, new paid subscribers receive a discount of 35% off. It’s the best deal of the year, and here is the link.

Things paid subscribers also get:

Invitations at no extra cost to monthly Zoom conversations on writing craft and on, you could say, civilization and its discontents.

Richard Toon

and I have hosted several gatherings recently on “taking risks.” The Zoom sessions are terrifically warm and collaborative. People meet each other. A great community of writers and readers has formed. All paid subscribers are welcome each time. The next one is Saturday March 29 from 3 to 4 EST.

The opportunity to work with me on a one-to-one basis to develop your writing practice and to start and grow a Substack publication.

The opportunity to attend smaller writing workshops and break-out sessions for more intimate exchange on topics prompted at the Zooms.

Access to the entire archive of 220 posts—that’s the equivalent of three books of literary writing. Lit Hub named “Everything is Personal” one of the 7 best literary publications on Substack.

I like talking to you.

I like a dog resting its head on my lap. If you get into bed with cold feet, I won’t mind. Everyone is a little bit lonely. Another time we watched fireworks on the roof of a friend. Her neighbor had prepared deviled eggs and potato salad. It was terrifically sweet. Bright formations rose up and hovered, and when it was over, there were cheers from nearby roofs. Afterward, we went to Odessa to eat. I feel the old desire to walk the length of the city. Once the thong on my flip-flop broke. We were on a small side street. I went into a shop, and a young man directed me to an outdoor market. Everyone there spoke dog. The streets were cobbled with small square stones. A woman with tan skin and high cheekbones was wearing silk shoes made in China. She sold me a pair. Pleasure is always out of sync with history.

I like the pink powder of red rocks that coats you on trails in the desert. Mozart refused to wear livery during performances for his patrons. When Gardner was painting trompe l’oeil designs at the Helmsley Palace Hotel, we worked the graveyard shift from midnight to five AM. He marbleized columns and sponged clouds onto domes. I helped him apply gold leaf to moldings. In the lobby, we saw the late-night action of hustlers, hookers, and sharks. In upstairs areas we were allowed to roam were winding corridors and secret attic rooms.

I had a friend who didn’t know how beautiful she was. In Mexico, her mother kissed me as if I were one of her children. Sometimes, when we are left disappointed, we don’t want to do things differently. One day, on Monhegan Island in Maine, I said to Richard, “We are married in the presence of the sea and sky.” We were sitting on a granite ledge above the ocean, and the words just popped out of my mouth. I said them three times. After my mother died, my sister asked me to spend a week with her so she could quit smoking. She said, “I would have had babies until I had a girl.” One afternoon, when my mother was cooking mushrooms in a pan, they came to look like my father’s face.

In the first chapter of The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), Freud frets about revealing his own dreams in the narrative. He fears the information could get into the wrong heads. Then he says to hell with trying to control what other people think. In January, I visited a man with a view of the river. Chunks of ice eased north and birds circled overhead. He was dating a woman because she was beautiful and because her friends had guns. He couldn’t understand why a person who was into having sex with him wasn’t in love with him as much as he was in love with her. This made me laugh.

We laugh when humans are made to seem like animals and when animals are made to seem like people. The parents of Francesca Woodman and Lena Dunham were accomplished artists, who gave their daughters freedom. Both Woodman and Dunham became artists who, in their work, took off their clothes. Above our couch is a poster for the movie 2001 a Space Odyssey. It shows the star baby, and the caption reads, “The ultimate trip.” The poster was distributed after stoned young people began thronging showings of the movie and MGM executives, who had been bored by it and feared it would be a financial flop, saw a marketing opportunity. Kubrick had cost the company an extra five million dollars, doubling the agreed upon budget. If the movie failed, it would wipe out the studio. Owing to the stoners, the movie became a huge financial success.

Comedy is the voice that allows you to see pain without having to take care of anyone. It asks you for nothing but involuntary happiness. I’m leaving this for you on the side of the road. If you view the object as me, it will prevent you from seeing it might be you.

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The next ZOOM conversation for paid subscribers is on Saturday March 29 from 3 to 4 EST.

To RSVP, please write to: lauriestone@substack.com

If you would like a link to the recording of the Zoom on January 25, on taking risks, or the recording of the Zoom on February 22 on creating an intimate narrative voice, please email me at: lauriestone@substack.com.

Would you like to start or grow a Substack publication?

I'm currently working with writers to gain subscribers and sharpen their appeal to readers. If you would like to book time for guidance, please email me at: lauriestone@substack.com

This service is available to paid subscribers only, and there is a pro-rated hourly fee.

To attend smaller gatherings to speak about your work and the topics of the Zooms:

Sign up here: lauriestone@substack.com.

Another way to lend one-time support

and gain an invite to the next Zoom conversation. Tip your server with a $4 coffee: ko-fi.com/lauriestone

There are three links

at the bottom of every post: “like,” “share,” and “comment.” Your responses attract new readers, and I love hearing your thoughts about the posts! REALLY TRULY.