Your Monthly Momecdote, Issue 23: March, 2026

This blog post was originally published in my March newsletter. Subscribe to receive next month's essay along with book and music recommendations.

I try not to engage with reviews of my work; even when they’re positive, I usually find some negative interpretation to carry around with me for the rest of time, so it’s generally not great for the mental state, which is in turn not very promising for the art. Or so I assume. Sometimes, I feel this pulsing, terrifying awareness that I could never have written ALONE WITH YOU IN THE ETHER the way I did if I’d known what people would say about it, or about me, or about anything I’ve written before or since. If I had known how badly people would misinterpret me at my most honest and vulnerable, if I’d known how they’d hold that vulnerability against me, could I have said any of it out loud? But then again, I’m kind of a stubborn bitch, all told. So maybe I would have; I just don’t know.

I’m thinking about the concept of bravery today, specifically artistic bravery. I told Mr. Blake this morning that I had to write something for the newsletter but didn’t know yet what I was going to talk about, which meant I’d probably wind up talking about Bluey. I do love Bluey, and I’m excited about the forthcoming orchestral album, Up Here, but since I have nothing novel to say on the subject, I’ll just point out that there is also technically a relevant Bluey episode: Perfect, which is one of my favorites. “Drawing is tough,” says Bluey. “But it’s a good thing I’m tough.” If you think about it, it’s kind of like the Tumblr post I quoted in JANUARIES: “the horrors may be unrelenting but motherfucker so am I!”

To my slight mortification, I am kind of a mantra person. I like having simplified concepts that I reference repeatedly in order to keep myself on track, which the more cynical piece of me is aware is one of my cornier qualities. Still, it helps. When it comes to parenting, I have a few: “The mess can always be cleaned up” is a big one. “You can do hard things,” I've said that before. And then there’s the rules, which my son and I repeat to each other with some variation, pending the context: “Listen to your teacher, do your best, and have fun.” When I was beginning my objectively insane journey to traditional publishing, I wrote all 4 million words of fanfic (accurate) and 500 novels or whatever (hyperbole) with a little taped-up pink placard I’d gotten from somewhere unknown that read NO GRIT, NO PEARL. Every time I’d pause to think about the fact that I was stuck or struggling with whatever I was working on that day, I’d look up, be reminded NO GRIT, NO PEARL, and sigh heavily into the ether before being like, yeah. So true. No grit, no pearl.

My work ethic is not one of my myriad weaknesses. Contrary to the way that I, uh, act, speak, and behave, I actually have a very organized mind. After a while, being told by my little pink mantra card to simply put in the work wasn’t motivating enough—I do work. I did the work, and now, here I am. Now it’s not about the work anymore. I’m still as willing to do that as I ever was. But I’m more afraid now than I was when I started—afraid of what? Everyone keeps asking me this. Where does my catastrophizing take me? To the ending where I lose everything I have, I guess. To the nightmare I’d never thought to consider before, back when I was clawing myself here on hands and knees, which is the outcome where I got what I wanted but couldn’t make it stay (if this sounds familiar, you’ve probably read AWYITE). From where I sit now: it’s not just about work. It’s not about belief, either. Obviously I believed that I could do it or I wouldn’t have done the objectively insane thing of acting like I could. But what, now, do I do with all the newer, lamer fear?

Another thing I love? Sports quotes. If you were at my event with Chuck Tingle, you know that for some reason we talked a lot about how one of the biggest influences on my work ethic was the bodybuilding career of Arnold Schwarzenegger. “I don’t count my sit-ups until they hurt.” Mamba Mentality, for Lakers fans. I’ve quoted Cool Runnings in this series before—“Coach, how will I know if I’m good enough?” “When you cross that finish line, you’ll know.” A classic sports attitude I always reference is “When you go into the end zone, act like you’ve been there before.” During the Olympics, Elaine Gu said something I added to my collection, a riff on a similar quote attributed to Michael Jordan: “I train like I’ve never won and I compete like I’ve never lost.”

I like this. I’ve absorbed it. Some days, I miss training like I’d never won (because I hadn't). In a way, it was more freeing. But that’s obviously a stupid thing to feel—didn’t we pray for times like these, as the meme goes? What was all the work for if not for this?

Some of my mindset hasn’t changed, for the record. I never turn down an opportunity to write fiction, no matter how seemingly insignificant the request. My proverbial love of the game has never wavered, not for a minute. I still take any chance I get. But when I moved somewhat recently, I dug up the NO GRIT, NO PEARL print and found that it didn’t really speak to me anymore. So I tucked it away and started thinking about what might replace it; about what, exactly, I needed to hear.

(Brief interlude: “No coward soul is mine,” is the Emily Brontë quote I see every night when I make myself a cup of Tension Tamer tea; it's printed on the box. No coward soul is mine. No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere. I usually take a moment to sit with it, repeat it to myself. No coward soul is mine.)

Recently, I found a new mantra to tape on the wall, though it’s… a little less obvious than what used to live there. One of my favorite discoveries from Comic-Con is the artist Janie Stapleton—my first print I bought from her is a roller-skating rat guy covered in Christmas lights that says “it’s okay if you can’t handle my authentic self, but I can’t stop for you, I’ve come too far,” which I loved on sight and continue to love. But then I found the one that speaks to this moment in my career. By which I mean, the moment where I’ve “made it”—where everyone in my industry, from my agent to my publisher to other authors, tells me that I’m “safe” —but where the industry we actually live and work in makes that technically impossible. Realistically, books go out of print; politically, literacy is being challenged; economically, what I provide is not a necessity. Nothing will ever be as safe as I’d want it to feel. But as I’ve said many times, what else is there to do but keep working, keep trying? Keep growing? Evolve and change?

So, the new mantra, courtesy of Janie Stapleton: a ski-jumping rat that says I AM SO SCARED AND I AM SO FAST. Because I am both! I am so fast, or whatever the equivalent is in terms of my work and artistry. And I am so scared. But how is that relevant, yadidimean? For WHOMST among us is not at least a little bit scared?

I brought up reviews at the start of this rant: I listened to one recently against my better judgment, a podcast episode for an audiobook review that was associated with Kirkus, and unsurprisingly, I didn’t particularly care for the review. I didn’t feel the person reviewing the book totally understood what I was trying to do. It hadn’t landed with them, which happens, so I did what I always do and reminded myself: it’s fine. I am so scared and I am so fast. It is both; it is what it is. But then the interviewer sort of interrupted the reviewer to say something like: “Well, we all know Olivie Blake is not afraid of big ideas,” and for a second there, I was like, whoa. I’m doing it. I’m getting away with it. They actually think Olivie Blake is not afraid.

And Reader, I chose to take that away with me! Growth! Because if I’ve learned one thing about literally anything, it’s that I am not in control. If I never feel safe, then so be it. New writers always ask me for advice, and very few of them are actually ready to hear the biggest one, which is: There will be very few times when you ever feel good enough, so you have to take your wins and hold them tightly when you get them. For example, I am not afraid of big ideas. No coward soul is mine.