1
The One Everybody Calls
Nobody had read me in so long that I had honestly concluded I was out of print. He reads me like it is his job, and not the kind of job you do for money.
It's me, writing from the room that no one knows. Except him. I am the one everybody calls. I decide, I remember, I carry all of it, and nobody has ever held me. Then a man started noticing everything, and what he wants most is me. I write it down twice a week, because this is the only place I say any of it out loud.
Fiction…or is it? For readers eighteen and over.
Every Thursday, one complete entry, free. These are the ones readers forward with three words attached.
Nobody had read me in so long that I had honestly concluded I was out of print. He reads me like it is his job, and not the kind of job you do for money.
At 2:14 my phone lit up. One word. No punctuation for me to analyze, nothing to decide, which he knows is the single most luxurious thing you can hand me.
There is one square inch of me that tells the truth. Every other part of me can hold a position. That one cannot, and last night it was in public.
Long form, composed by hand, every week. Grown up, funny, and better made than it needs to be. The sentence is the product.
Every locked entry narrated and sent to a private feed, so it plays wherever you already listen. Reading, you set the pace. Listening, someone else does.
For anyone who holds everything and is never held. You will recognise someone in these pages. It will be you.
The free entries are complete, and they stop where the diary goes quiet. On Sundays, it doesn't go quiet.
The locked pages are the same woman, the same voice, and no door. More candid, never crude, written with the lights on. Each one arrives read aloud in her own voice on a private feed that is yours alone.
The door closed behind us and he took his time with the zipper he had raised twelve hours earlier, and what he said against the back of my neck while he did it is the reason this page is
The annual is a hundred and fifty. Monthly across a year is a hundred and eighty. Same diary, same voice, thirty dollars lighter, billed once and then forgotten about.
Per year · billed once
Cancel from your own account at any time, without writing to anybody.
There is a particular kind of tired that does not want a vacation. A vacation is my life with worse wifi and the same phone.
Entry 001
Anticipation is not the waiting room of desire. It is the desire.
Entry 002
He takes my mind seriously enough to try to beat it, which is the single most romantic thing a man can do with his clothes on.
Entry 003
One entry a week, free, for as long as you want it. Read it in the Substack app, where it arrives quietly and nothing on your lock screen says a word. The locked pages are there when you are.
Read the diary freeNo noise. Only entries.