Letters to New Hampshire
Missives make us honest (w/ Meg Oolders of Stock Fiction)
I’m not quite sure when I met
. We’ve never shaken hands, or been in the same town together, for the simple reason that we live on different continents.Meg writes
from New Hampshire, an honest, human Substack that blends humor and flash fiction, and for over a year now, thanks to the community, we’ve been corresponding about life, literature, and all the rest of it.Last year I interviewed Meg about YA literature, nostalgia, and her writing process, but this time around, we thought it’d be interesting to learn more about each other’s personal lives (and life philosophies) through the written word.
Writing letters allows for a literary depth that other forms can’t, for the simple reason that letter-writing requires a kind of improvisation and honesty that doesn’t exist in writing drafting fiction. I rarely re-read the letters I write to friends before sending them, and each time I revisit these missives (I love that word), I’m always struck by how I’ve changed (and how I’ve remained the same) since their composition.
To write a letter is an acknowledgment of a specific moment in time, proof of the myriad ways in which we’re always evolving.
And so what follows is the first of two exchanges between me and
, two who got to know each other more deeply in the depths of winter by taking a pause from writing fiction.Meg,
It's Saturday morning in Paris and I've got a cold again. Even after 15+ years in this city, I'm simultaneously amazed by how long the winter grey feels and how beautiful the city remains, even when cloaked beneath a singular grey cloud that seems to stretch from here to the Norman coast.
I knew you as a fellow Substacker first, but quickly realized you were in actuality a fellow writer--yes, I do believe there's a difference between those two things, because of course there is, and delving into that difference between writing primarily for ourselves versus writing for others is the meta theme of this letter.
One of the first things that impressed me about your writing was its depth and its humor. It's rare to read someone who isn't trying to say "hey, laugh at this joke," especially when said writings become monetized; rarer still to couch the humorous absurdist nature of life in seemingly straightforward narratives, like you do. For those reading this letter, all I can say about Meg's work is that her writing is a feeling. Just go feel it. There's nothing so useless as analysis when it comes to human artistry.
But more than your ability to express your worldview on the page is your work ethic and your diligence as a writer, for the simple reason that I can't help but also acknowledge: you also seem to be a loving, talented mother.
Despite what some male novelists insist about how books are babies too, I am not, in fact, a mother, and it's hard for me to imagine how I would continue to find time in my life to write novels if I had the added responsibility and joy of raising a family. And while I could ask you about how you balance those two things, the truth is I don't really care, because I know you do, because you're a writer, and something I know about writers, whether they are mothers, fathers, window cleaners, or dishwasher salesmen, is that writers write, and will always write, because that's how we make sense of this strange and beautiful world.
You've written multiple books that I know about, and you've chosen been compelled to focus on the genre of YA (Young Adult) ... insofar as any story that encompasses much of your life and subconscious could ever be neatly packaged into a two-letter acronym. I'm not a fan of genre-ification for various reasons, but the fact remains we can't help but try and put each other into boxes, because such is our nature, to find patterns and imbue them with meaning.
As such, I'm curious why your inner voice writes YA, specifically, and what about your own "young adulthood" might be connected to your attraction to the genre. Of course, I have no doubt you also write more "adult" fiction (whatever that means), not the least because from what I can tell, most of your Substack writings are not of the YA genre, but since I'm a writer primarily interested in what makes us human beings tick, my question to you is: what makes you tick in regards to the YA genre? And what about writing for teenagers teenage characters speaks to you in a way that writing about "adults" doesn't allow as much space for?
Looking forward to your response, which can be just as delayed as my letter was to you. Sometimes the questions have to marinate for a bit before there are any answers. Like the false spring in Paris.
Looking forward to your illuminating thoughts, fellow writer friend.
Samuél
Dear Samuél,
I’m from the future …
… if I’m writing to the version of you who sat down a week ago to pen the first letter of this exchange, and that version of you is still spending a slice of his winter-grey Saturday morning in Paris, writing to a friend on the other side of the Atlantic.
It’s still Saturday. But the time, place, and point of view have changed. Now my fingers are at the keyboard, tentatively putting thoughts to digital paper, as I listen to the constant dripping of melting snow outside my suburban window. Yes, snow in April. And no, I don’t have much appreciation for it, even after forty-four winters in New England.
You know what’s funny? The voice of this letter. It’s mine, but it’s inspired by yours. Is it obvious?
I’m not an AI.
Maybe it’s the media we’ve chosen.
The Letter.
It leaves a lot of room for one to tune up and vocalize with intention. To acclimate to the mood of the room. To compose, rather than improvise. To script, rather than riff off the cuff.
Thanks for the kind words about my writing. I’m going to put on my rarely donned COCKY hat and agree with you about why it’s good. The fact that I feel through everything I write – and think through it very little – means I don’t always know what I’m trying to say. Only that I need to say it. So, it’s meaningful, for me as much as anyone, when someone like you can decode my messages and bring them to light. Which is a form of analysis, I think. But it’s one I support.
If I may fire a kindness back, what most impresses about your writing is its courage. The challenging topics you navigate and the levels of intimacy you explore could be easily fumbled in the hands of someone less open-minded and willing to consider every side of every multi-faceted equation. This is why your readers are so loyal to you. Because you tell the truth, even when it’s ugly. And you have a gift for making even the ugliest things appear beautiful. Like a shitty, grey, winter day in the city, for example.
You’re also wicked wise and experienced, which often has me forgetting that you’re young enough to be my surprise little brother who showed up ten years after our parents decided they were “done.” As the baby of the family, you would get a lot of encouragement about following your dreams, and I’d grow up bitter and envious of your globe-trotting artist lifestyle.
But motherhood is an adventure, too.
You asked about YA, and why I’ve chosen or felt compelled to write in that space, and to be honest, I’m starting to resent the need to label my work as anything but MINE. When courting gatekeepers, you’re required to “pick a genre.” Even if your work crosses into other genres or defies genre entirely. When you break the mold, you become undesirable, which rubs me in all kinds of wrong ways.
If I’ve written young adult books to this point, it’s because I wanted to read them. Pure and simple. They feed something in me that’s difficult to pin down.
Or is it?
I’ve discovered, since tiptoeing into more adult-centered fiction, that the source I draw from to create those stories is the very same source that powers my teenager stories. Maybe because middle-age feels an awful lot like adolescence.
It’s a transformative and confusing time. You’re filled with angst. Envy. And rage. You’re self-conscious. Body-conscious. Curious. Lonely. Overwhelmed. Underutilized. You question authority. You want to impress the cool kids. You’re so afraid to fail, you don't even want to try. You’re super horny. Or are you in love? You don’t know who you are or what the hell you’re doing most of the time. You’re just trying to find your place and your people. And you desperately want to be seen.
Or maybe that’s just my experience.
But I’ve got a decade on you, little brother. So, my question to you is: where do you see yourself in ten years? Personally and/or professionally?
If you turn around and tell me you haven’t given it any thought, I will have to call foul. Because while I know you are a man who lives every moment to the fullest (better than most), I also know you are a romantic, a dreamer, and above all, a thinker.
No wrong answers here. Just a glimpse of what you’ve conjured up in those quiet moments when your brain takes the wheel because the rest of you is too tipsy to drive.
Where do you go?
Are you still writing? Are you still living in Paris? Has your family constellation changed?
Thanks for opening this gate, friend. I look forward to your response ...
... from the future.
💜Meg
 | A guest post by
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Love this. I now want to write letters more often. Especially with the fact that handwritten letters were not replaced by email because they were ineffective, but only because they weren't as fast. I think in this digital world, we all need something to slow us down a bit, to make us think and feel. It's the same way writing on paper may feel more heavenly than clacking away at keys like we're used to. The time is worth the hustle. The message is worth the wait.
This is wonderful. There’s a voyeuristic thrill about peeking into a conversation between two smart people - and excellent writers - but there’s also the simple joy of feeling human connection. I’ve been musing about a fiction based on correspondence - it’s an idea lurking in my notebook of prompts. But it’s going to surface, inspired by this delightful exchange. Thanks for sharing.