“Spring is the time of plans and projects.” ― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Fourteen months ago I posted my first post on Substack. Today I am posting my second. Sometime between then and now, YOU SUBSCRIBED. Bless you.
For all that time I have been considering what this is. Without a clear answer about what I would be sending to your inbox—the purpose of these words, a sense of direction for the journey we will be embarking on together— I didn’t want to take up space or attention that you could give to the other things that give you life.
Still, I wanted to write something. The whole time. The desire never left me.
Since I first encountered the concept of a blog and immediately started one way back in 2004 (wow), I have been writing on the internet routinely in one form or another.
Jobs have come and gone. I’ve changed cities and churches and communities. Since posting that first blog post which was an account of my youngest daughter’s first birthday party—she’s an electrician now—I’ve raised two kids and earned two degrees. There have been a number of homes, pets, fitness routines, ice cream cones, and romantic interests. I opened and closed a bookstore (!!!) Twenty years later—I’m still here; writing on the internet. Hoping it lands for someone.
Often it does. Nothing electrifies me like someone replying to a post or an email with a version of, ‘Thanks, I needed that today.’ I always feel so honoured, and, if I’m being honest, still surprised. Every time it happens I think, WOW! Words written by other writers have provided so much for me, the reader… encouragement, insight, validation, comfort, inspiration, energy, and more. It is JOY to know that I can be a giver of those things to other readers as a writer.
I am compelled by the hope that I have something, intrinsically valuable if inherently ephemeral, to offer someone.
Over recent months I awoke to new ideas about what I want this Substack to be. I changed the title of the newsletter from The Bookseller of the Apocalypse (the working title of my bookstore memoir) to Postapocalyptic People (because the bookstore is an old story and I want to write into The New1).
While mustering up the initiative to write something, I aimed for Easter weekend to hit ‘post’ (because resurrection, hope, new life, springtime, and growth). Last weekend I landed on Holy Saturday as a posting date (because liminal space, transformation, and the need to keep living between what was and what’s next).
Today I wrote what will be the Welcome Email for new subscribers. Even though you’ve already subscribed, I am sharing it with you now so that you can get an idea of what you’re in for. If it’s not your thing, please unsubscribe. As a proponent of a simplified and curated inbox, I understand. Thank you for journeying with me this far.
If you decide to stick around… welcome. Again!
(Welcome Email)
Hi again! Remember me?
My name is Danica and I used to run Coastal Books in Port Moody BC.
You were on the bookstore’s email list, so I have invited you to subscribe to my new email newsletter: Postapocalyptic People.
What is a postapocalyptic person anyway?
Have you ever endured an experience that felt like the end of the world?
Are you currently trying to survive a catastrophically destructive disaster2 of any sort—interior or exterior, personal or communal, metaphorical or literal— but you still somehow face the unknown future with a sense of hope (however vague)?
Then you might be a postapocalyptic person.
I started this Substack newsletter after the bookstore closed. I posted once. Then, I hit a wall of depression, grief, and burnout, and couldn’t bring myself to post again. You see, the bookstore was just one of my worlds that came to an end—the grand finale after a spectacular series of losses.
Loss is common. I’m not alone in mine, and neither are you in yours.
But this Substack isn’t about loss.
We are postapocalyptic people. The bad thing happened. We sat in the dust for a minute. We took a breather.
Eventually, we got up. We brushed ourselves off.
What now?
Life goes on. And, as they say, life is what we make it.
This is the headspace from which I write these emails. Maybe this is the space in which you receive them.
Topically? Expect anything. Most likely the emails will appeal to the lit-lover in you, whether you’re a reader or a writer or both. They’re bound to be philosophical sometimes, spiritual occasionally, and future-focused generally. Personal stories, because that’s what I do. Expect a tone of hopefulness, lovingkindness, and creativity.
For many people, certainly for me, creating is a vital way forward. We make new things, we make new worlds, we make new meaning, we make new friends, we make new love, we make ourselves.
This Substack is a new thing I’m making. I’d love for you to come along. No worries if not. Unsubscribe anytime 💖
Additional details…
If you can’t find my emails, check your spam folder. Then, please mark this address as ‘not spam.’ If it’s not there, either, try looking in the promotions folder. And, as a subscriber, you can always see my full posts when you’re logged into Substack.
Thanks again, and please tell a postapocalyptic friend who you think might enjoy reading this!
xo Danica
The New is a phrase borrowed from Makoto Fujimura’s book Art + Faith: A Theology of Making https://makotofujimura.com/writings/why-art-why-write
Postapocalyptic (adjective) : existing or occurring after a catastrophically destructive disaster or apocalypse. (Merriam-Webster)
Welcome back! 🥰
Danica, I look forward to what you have to write. You have a beautiful way of sharing your words.