why should u subscribe
Honestly? I don’t know. Some people have read things I’ve written and texted me things like “okay, FEELINGS” but also sometimes just “carrie what the fuck.” So if that sort of non-specific description of my work sounds intriguing, you might like this. If you’ve ever read my writing somewhere else—somewhere “legitimate” even as the media publishing landscape grows increasingly dismal—and thought “I’d read the thoughts she wanted to write if she had total editorial freedom, no matter self-indulgent or random as some as them may be! Even the ones about Reds that quite literally no one asked for!” then this is for you. (No one has ever thought that, I’m sure, but please just let me have that one.)
Look: You should subscribe if you are a fan of longass essays, miss the time when blogs were more Nora Ephron (I am never not thinking about her incredible blog against egg white omelettes) than suburban mommy girl boss giving you a recipe for ice cubes, and I don’t know, want to support independent writing, and/or me, your friend. (I do not know most of you.) If you were a fan of bed crumbs back when it was a tumblr blog (lol), this is literally the exact same thing. There are pieces on Paul Simon’s 1991 Concert in Central Park, anxious late night thoughts about the various ways in which the world could (will—it’s inevitable) end, the ghosts of New York City (a perennial fave), and, uh, a throwaway sight gag in High Anxiety. It’s a wild fucking grab bag, folks.
You can read the whole archive on this site, or, while you’re here, read all my real legit clips on my real legit site. If you subscribe, I’ll show up in your inbox kind of like this. Who wouldn’t want that?
why a newsletter?
Look, I’m just “person” in “media” watching the few remaining publications pivot themselves into oblivion, so why not work for free for myself? And then inject that free work straight into your veins / inboxes / the internet void? It’s an ego thing, I love being my own boss and doing whatever the fuck I want with no one telling me there’s no market for a sad 3,000 word essay about “Song For Sharon” by Joni Mitchell.
wait who are you? someone just sent me this, i don’t even know you, why are you talking to me like i’m your friend?
Oh hi sorry my bad, uh. Sorry, please—sorry. This is awkward. My name is Carrie. I’m a writer (duh) and I make videos at Condé Nast with Pitchfork and Vanity Fair. I write and edit essays about movies at Bright Wall/Dark Room. I freelance around, mostly with music and film and entertainment pieces. I’m writing a biography of Elaine May for St. Martin’s Press—which is why these posts are so sporadic. I have not known rest since I was 12. (But even that’s debatable.) Please don’t be mad at me.
i see that you have a paying subscriber option. i’m sorry, what? you want me to give you money for this?
I have no illusions about actually making any money (neither, uh, do Substack’s founders, lol) from this but also I’m not stupid and putting myself in the position to not make money. Everyone and their mother has a substack these days, and those subscription fees add up! And this is sporadic enough that, for now at least, it’s pretty much entirely free. The subscriber option is more like a tip jar, if you will, that goes towards, I don’t know, a self-medicating bottle of wine every now and then.
If you made it this far, I don’t know what else to tell you. The world is going to be a charred apocalyptic hellscape in like ~12 years so really what does it matter!!!!!! Stream Margaret (2011) before it all ends!
okay thanks sorry love u bye