origin stories

in which I attempt to rationalize the unrelenting urge to start-a-new-project-as-healing-modality-and-artistic-contract.

adrienne jacobson oliver

Apr 19, 2023

from the after/hours archive: announcing!

I like to be amongst the people, lost in their throngs, and blurred by their crowds.

don't I feel safe there?

don't I feel protected?

what do I hide from in the mess of all that?

I craved a city and felt a kind of balletic grace in high school hallways. even now, my skin begs for the sweaty dance floors, cluttered backstages, and cramped dwellings of my youth; I still spend my night buried beneath the body of my child, and I don’t hate it.

I want the sticky closeness.

it was never the demand that excited me (I don't actually respond lovingly to expectations); it's the pulse for me. I’ve been a devout worshipper of the universal rhythm and its jazz & this ringing certainty that we gotta give over to the syncopated beat, the circular reprise, the repetition, the staccato, the dissonance.

in the grandest sense, I wanna worship the teeming swell by those for whom humanity's rhythm resonates. in the smallest, I just want my own little ripple to move a thing and I want that thing to be you.

I’m trying to justify why I hate newsletters.

for all the people here, where are the people here??

at times, I feel I am shouting into space. I love a dark theatre, but it's because I want the proximity of my neighbor's breath, and newsletters feel like the digital version of, “we are really funny; we should, like, have a podcast.”

I have loved moving between the crowds of you and the noise of your inboxes. if only because I seek a loud space, I have adored this feeble attempt at corralling my thoughts into one missive sent with any regularity or expectation.

I've never passed a soapbox I didn't love, but I've yet to get the hang of a newsletter.

maybe it's this: I have nothing to report and nothing to sell (even the opportunities I've offered are really just offering you back to you.. now with prompts!) and I don’t want to grow my audience because that sounds bacterial and I could genuinely give a shit about the analytics of who opens what when and clicks what button ever (I'll hire a Virgo) and I might die if I hear I have to ‘build my platform’ one more time, although I am in a Binders group for exactly that and it’s similarly anxiety-producing. indeed, at least 99%* of the business-building strategies, masterminds, and circle jerks I’m a part of bring me only the most nauseating sense of urgent demand.

I do not hope for marketing savvy + a wide client base; I really do hope we grow closer + that someday, you hold my words for real.

I hope you go to your local (woman-owned, indie) bookstore (goddammit) and find my soft cover and lush design tucked away on a shelf. I hope you tear up a little to hold me in your hands and I hope it feels like you always thought it might to meet a beloved. I hope you’ll think of that one time, when we met, and I smelled so good and you said so and then someone else said, ‘she always does,’ because I really try to, and then we hugged, and it was excellent, because I’m excellent at hugging, and it feels like that all over again except this time it’s yours to hold forever.

I hope you tuck into a dive bar in the early evening, after a show or movie or exhibit or concert or weird art center opening thingie that you didn’t really understand, but you attended anyway because the day began with me in book form and now you're risking your life for art.** I want you to be a little too eager. I want it to make the bartender think you’re a little weird, but she kind of likes it, and you tell her that your friend wrote a book and you took us both (me in your bag and you in your integrity) to a cultural affair all on our own. you’ll order a gin cocktail or an ice-cold tequila shot or a soda water, with a little smile, and we’ll be together side-by-side, and the bartender will hope you come back next Thursday, too.

I hope you talk until you’re starving, and make plans to come back next week; the bartender’s name is Paloma or Ingrid or Oak or James, and she makes you feel like you might remember what it is to press close to the life of a new-to-you human with total curiosity. the edges of her beg you to recall the burn of kindred spirits; you dog-ear the page where I write about soulmates, and you dare yourself to risk being seen by her as you are right now, trusting that sisterhood is the truest love. (for all her coolness, one day you’ll discover her love of musical theatre, and you’ll remember that everyone lovely is terrible and everything ridiculous is precious, but in this moment, before she makes you a musical theatre convert, you’ll order very spicy Thai to your place and text the group thread that it’s best ‘fits only tonight.)

I hope it’s a short walk to your house, or long train to your apartment. you’re home now, and the small of spice and musky beloveds fills your evening. they always bring too many bubbles, as a thank you for hosting, and have dressed to the nines. plates are heaped and heels are kicked and my softness in your bag grows quiet and still as you scroll to find another of my stories on HBO, or Sundance maybe, or possible AMC, or something surprising like FX. (while we're paused here, I hope it's season two, and I hope you know I'm going to end it here, and I hope we savor every episode.)

I hope you never tire of these coven slumber parties. I hope your floor is covered by the women who’ve come forward as guides in your days. I hope the children and young people who call your home their own tiptoe across the bodies and snuff out candles and sneak leftover chocolate bites and kiss you each on your forehead and promise to make very runny eggs and very crispy bacon in the morning. I hope they draw the blinds and sneak upstairs to bury themselves in the empty big bed. I hope one sees a glint of gold binding in a simple bag by the door and that she rescues my pages from your bag. I hope she carries it upstairs and snuggles beneath the kin who’ve birthed her girlhood and, across a bed, I hope a new soul comes to find my words in a home that has loved and championed them.

it’s a simple wish, really:

I hope to be a part of your life.

I hope to be passed on.

I hope to be cause for celebration.

I hope to be a reminder.

I hope to be a comfort.

I hope to be muzzle for every excuse.

I hope to be woven into your days.

everything in me wants to fight consistency. call it the stars I was born under or the boring factor or just, like, hear me when I say that I don’t like doing things with routine.. but I love ritual.

I will go down swinging for the ceremony of

book buying,

sister-making,

circle-gathering,

dinner having,

dressing up,

art-celebrating,

drink-toasting,

child-rearing,

world-building of my imagination.

I will fight to my death for the epiphanies of the jubilant mundane.

I exalt the ordinary loves.

& alladat feels like ritual to me.

so, yeah, I hope you buy my books and watch my art and come to the in-person shenanigans I’m scheming and attend my classes, and yeah, I don’t actually give a goddamn about an audience that isn't soulfriends, but the truest thing I’m admitting here is:

to be now what I want to be someday, I have to play from that improvisational spirit + say yes to the possibility that we could get close now.

I need to get beyond the noise I'm stoking in my mind and make space for the we I hope we be starting now. so I’m going to show up now like the person I hope to be in our meeting. I’m going to show up now like the person I want you to buy from and shout about and cheer for and know you are, truly, close to.

ok, and so here's how that show up in your inbox: integrity + daydreams + newsletter creation x soul stuff questions y'all asked in my stories – capitalistic demand or actual tangible items to sell = after/hours.

AFTER HOURS.

after-hours [af-ter-ouuhrz, -ou-erz, ahf-] adjective

1. occurring, engaged in, or operating after the normal or legal closing time for business.

AFTER HOURS

after-hours [af-ter-ouuhrz, -ou-erz, ahf-] adjective

2. a gloves-off, potentially ranty, definitely candid, behind-the-scenes, possibly superficial, secret-spilling aprés ski your Friday inbox probably can’t do without.

it’s that bookstore chatter with the one clerk who knows your taste enough to save aside my book for you. it’s that bartender who, by week three, knows your order, and brought their own book to discuss (spoiler: it's about musicals). it’s that friend that remembers you never remember the chopsticks and bought washable ones for your place. it’s that attentive viewing session where Netflix never had to ask if you were still watching. it’s that child of yours who only ever nods tenderly when their friends gush about just how cool you are. it’s that mother you call in the morning to talk about the one scene you both knew meant something important. it’s that runny egg and the generations together and the call to a life lived grander than we were sold.

it’s that intimacy we beg for and run from, all the same.

it’s that snow day magic.

it's that full moon ritual.

it's that first coffee glow.

it’s that first love time.

it’s that promise.

it's that rhythm.

there is more here to know and do and be.

that’s not a sell. (word is bond.)

we are so much more than what we say.