I'm creating Holiday Packages for any of my subscribers - fill out this form
I'm writing to you personally this time.
Dear reader,
Now over 75 people have subscribed to Honest Fiction, and my head is still spinning as if from a centripetal force.
Honest Fiction started out in a 7 by 9 foot room as cathartic word vomits in between underwear folds. I had the idea for it when I took up two cushions of my best friend’s L couch.
I laid there in a depressive fetal position after a breakup thinking the comical words at 23: “what’s really next for me?”
Turns out, a fucking lot.
Two years later, I’ve realized something peculiar. It’s always been mentally easier for me to go to war for others, rather than myself. I’d rather wield weapons for others, fight their battles and tend to their injuries — to anyone, but myself.
I won’t lie. Having bylines with millions of views was elating. But I was shouting into this non-tangible journalistic void where I dissected stock movements, informed techies on dating apps I didn’t care to use, talked to economists about the science of work. Without a semblance of a whisper back.
That was the difference.
So I became familiar with this pretty demoralizing idea. That from Vintage Gameboy colors in the ‘90s with the little angler fish light on it to VSCO-edited Instagrams capturing Friday blackouts — something’s stayed the same throughout the generations. That was that people didn’t give a shit. I thought, maybe people were too engrossed in their own parties, vacations, camera angles and salaries to care about the stories I had to tell. And ever would have to tell.
So it ironically took me being in a time where I had absolutely nothing to lose to start doing what I really wanted. I loudly wrote aggrieved sagas about creepy Lyft drivers, documenting my rise and fall in my career, unpacked things about ludicrous Asian family dynamics and griped about cis-gendered folks who are dumb enough to eat buttons off of remote controls.
I recklessly hit “publish”.
Then, this happened:
You guys really liked what I was doing, because finally becoming my own muse meant a lot of things.
It meant sharing a lot of uncomfortable shit online knowing that folks from your crookedly Christian past might be following you either in fascination, disdain or both. Running risk of judgement. Opening up to complete strangers has been bizarre and an emancipation of sorts.
To from my pigtail to my sneaker-covered toes, I’m moved by all of you amazing people.
I want to provide the same emancipation to others and be a mouthpiece for others who also want to shout into an abyss and hear something back.
But for now, I want to write to you guys, if you will let me.
So I had the idea of creating holiday cards to give back for your subscription.
What’s included in the cards:
A story or message I’ll share with you. Steer the topic if you want. If not, I’ll choose my own. Every single card is customized and different. I will publish your question or story on the Substack, along with my response. If you wish for this to not be the case, don’t get your knickers in a twist — just indicate that in the form.
A knick-knack that is related to your submission. I’m not here to give you unwarranted self help books unless you want it. If you don’t like it or if you follow Marie Kondo and it does not spark joy, feel free to discard it.
To get a curated and personalized holiday card, just:
Subscribe if you haven’t already
Fill out the Google form below.
I’ll get started on it right away and mail your card sometime in December in time for Christmas.
Support me with a completely optional donation so I can continue to recklessly hit publish. And then more and more publishes for the years to come.
Warmly,
Celena