Greetings From the Margins

Personhood is a doozy.

Growing up, I had a friend who was partial to cows. She didn’t raise them or milk them or even interact with them all that much. She just admired them from afar the way some people do the Kardashians. Over the years, people gifted her cow-printed everything — mugs and magnets and dishtowels and a sweatshirt with cows grazing in a puff paint pasture (‘twas the ‘90s). There was also, if memory serves, a bovine themed breadbox.

This happens to all of us, to some degree. We get summarized. Pigeon-holed. Labeled as the bookish one or the cat lady or the one who loves puzzles. Condensed into a few sentences on a resume or CV or social media bio. Pithy, punchy, brief.

These days, it’s often my phone that makes me aware of my categorization, mostly through ads for things I don’t recall searching for. There are also the text messages that appear in waves about events tangentially related to me. This was a high traffic week.

The first wave was about the New Yorker article by J.R. Moehringer, also known as Prince Harry’s ghostwriter. I’ve spent much of the past decade working as a ghost — with a shelf full of books I cannot show for it — and everyone wanted to be sure I’d seen it.

While clickbait positioned it as a salacious piece detailing a rift between Moehringer and the prince, I found the human-interest angle far more compelling: The heartbreak of feeling unseen vs. the comfort of invisibility. The service of helping someone tell their story to the world. The struggle of pursuing, prioritizing, and publicizing your own work.

In one particularly salient anecdote, he writes about an event that transpired in the wake of the first book he’d ghosted, Andre Agassi’s memoir, Open:

“I switched on the TV. There was Andre, on a late-night talk show.

The host was praising Open, and Agassi was being his typical charming, humble self. Now the host was praising the writing. Agassi continued to be humble. Thank you, thank you. But I dared to hope he might mention…me? An indefensible, illogical hope: Andre had asked me to put my name on the cover, and I’d declined. Nevertheless, right before zonking out, I started muttering at the TV, ‘Say my name.’ I got a bit louder. ‘Say my name!’ I got pretty rowdy. ‘Say my fucking name!’”

I didn’t find the piece as fascinating as my friends did. I found it rather soothing.

Whenever anyone takes interest in the shape of being a ghostwriter — how does it feel, they want to know, to do work that is uncredited, invisible? I find it ironic. It’s a valid question. But how many of us could ask the same about our work, whether it happens in the home or in service to some cause, client, or corporation? Invisibility can suck. It is also not unique.

Even the most visible among us have moments where we feel unseen. Disregarded. Misunderstood. Under-appreciated.

It’s a small group of humans who have spent an evening shouting “say my name” at a talk show. But I can promise you that we all know the feeling. In life, credit is not often guaranteed. Kind of like paid leave, equal pay, accessible childcare, and comprehensive healthcare.

So, how does it feel to be a ghost? The truth is, every job is different. But at least the parameters are agreed upon beforehand.

The second text wave concerned the news of writer Heather Armstrong’s tragic death. They were from people who knew her and others who felt like they did. I’ll keep it brief, as the internet has been rife with personal writing, in tributes that lionize and demonize. Many have shared what Dooce meant to them — the company, camaraderie, inspiration, and permission her words supplied. Others have expressed righteous anger that she is being pigeon-holed as a “mommy blogger” when in truth she was a trailblazer. Others have shared difficulty parsing their feelings for Heather the writer versus Heather the person. Her oeuvre is far-reaching and complicated. Like humans. Like feelings. Like grief.

This week, as the texts rolled in, it illuminated something that was always plain to see: We are all ghosts, whether we sign up for it or not.

As a kid, I was envious of friends with older siblings who paved the way for all sorts of allowances. But adulthood has been bolstered by such figures, many of whom I’ve never had to pleasure to meet. Sir Isaac Newton said, “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Giants and ghosts.

Every sentence I type is infused with the efforts of unseen figures. Those who dreamed the worlds that fill the books I read. Those who demonstrated what was possible. Those who forged a path.

We all walk unseen in the margins of other people’s stories, the ripples of our efforts extending farther than we know. Loving fiercely, living bravely, haunting softly. Passing the torch from one to another, as long as we possess the light.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring Pagan Otherworlds Tarot by Uusi

Like all tens, the Ten of Pentacles speaks to completion. An endpoint of sorts. A base camp. A place to land.

Sometimes we don’t recognize progress because the proverbial goalpost can always be pushed a little further. But this card implores you to notice the ways you’ve grown. Remember where you started. See how far you’ve come.

Everything culminates in something, and your efforts have not been for naught. You’ve built more than you give yourself credit for.

Featuring the iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

Traditionally, this card appears to be populated with characters from Succession, a fete in a villa to which I did not receive an invite. It calls to mind that line from Prufrock, “In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo.”

But here’s the thing: Wealth doesn’t have to be material. It can mean the richness of experience. Prosperity comes in all forms, and is all around us. The trick has less to do with hustling or hoarding than it does with simply noticing.

Abundance as a noun is relative. Abundance as a feeling is not.

The top regrets of people on their deathbeds are, “I wish I’d had the courage to let myself express my feelings,” followed by “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard,” and — more than any other — “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” Nary a word about money or possessions. But more than one mention of courage.

A rich reality takes many forms. It could mean putting down roots. Creating or connecting with community. Expressing your truth.

It could also look like a hot shower. Soft bedding. A cold glass of water. Dappled sunlight dancing on the wall. Warm chocolate chip cookies. The end of a good book.

While tens signify the end of one period, they also foretell a beginning. You’ve learned something in your journey to this point. You’ve gathered resources. Now, where would you like to go?

What does your desired landscape look like? Does it include animals? Sunshine? Solitude? Friendship? A garden? A room of one’s own?  

This is your life, your landscape, your kingdom.

What will you build?