On Things What Can't Be Helped

It's time to get things started on Brendan's newsletter

Hello—

Welcome to Can’t Be Helped, my new storytelling newsletter wherein every so often I’ll aim to entertain you with diatribes, tales of the past from the perch of this here present, featuring all the hits from the ‘80s, the ‘90s, and today. I don’t want to lie to you here, part of this missive will be memoirish. Memoiresque. In memoirium.

Which duly begs certain questions. Why should you care about some shit that happened to me when I was younger than I am now? When we were all younger, really?

Well, I guess I can’t rightly guarantee you a satisfying answer there. But after many years spent writing about the work and lives of others, something has convinced me to turn the telescope around, for a change. Maybe it’s as simple as concluding that the subject I, like all of us, am really most interested in is myself. Which is, admittedly, regrettable. Vain, you could say say—in either sense. But, it is what informs the title to our nascent little program.

So yes, personal history will be part of the subject line around here. I want to tell you things about myself. I know that’s a bit vague. I should have a clearer idea of what I’m getting into before I hit ‘Subscribe,’ you may very reasonably be thinking. So I suppose at this point that I’m asking for your trust. I won’t waste your time.

Writing is a funny practice. I do it, sure—but so do you. I don’t always see a huge distinction between our efforts. We’re all just communicating. Aiming to make ourselves heard through characters.

Humble though my time trying to “go pro” at it has been, writing’s earned me some really proud moments and mementos. You’ve probably seen a good number of them (because when things go well I am not shy). I’ve been able to carve out a steady career, which a smart friend once reminded me was the goal all along. I’ve had the opportunity to write for news organizations of all stripes. I’ve done criticism and interviews and features and all kinds of fun stuff. They even paid me! (Most of the time.)

I’ve met so many wildly creative and ambitious people and had the chance to help tell some of their stories. I’ve been privileged to only ever affix my byline to subjects that genuinely capture my interest. It’s been a thrill.

I’ve also failed at my goals an awful lot. There are scores more stories I’ve wanted to write than I’ve been able. I’ve struggled with consistency, and the “climb” aspect of this career, and proving my way up the ladder. I’ve been given a lot of opportunities and leeway and encouragement and have not been able to capitalize on those advantages to my satisfaction. It’s worn on me and my mental health, to be frank. While there are things I might yet do, there are also dreams that will remain just that, which I am increasingly at peace with. It just makes it time to conjure up new ones.

One of the greatest joys my pursuit of expression has brought me is the many incredible and accomplished writers I’ve come to know. These friends inspire me and motivate me and most have even gone to lengths to provide me with opportunities to grow and succeed. But I’ve felt different from them, too. Sometimes I’ve just felt worse at the job than them. And hey maybe to a degree that’s true; we all have our limitations. But largely I’ve felt like a round peg trying to fit in square holes.

At this moment in life I want to try fitting into something I cut to my own size. Which is why we’re here.

This newsletter project is an effort to begin something new. It’s a step back from the news, which moves so fast amid infinite competing currents. Instead, this will be slow. Not current at all. But hopefully of no less merit for it.

So this space generally won’t be overly dedicated to topical essays that react to our world or new media in real time. I like reading that sort of coverage plenty, but there are just so many of those kinds of publications out there that despite the format’s alluring dexterity I can’t find it in me to hang my shingle on a competing endeavor. I’ve spent quite a long time trying to drink from that trough and it’s left me feeling gross and thirsty. I just can’t keep pace, I suppose. But who knows I’ll probably run out of ideas and change my mind.

It might prove a fool’s errand, to try and write without masthead or marketing or news peg relevance, but I want to do it anyway. Readership on my journal is terrible, let me tell you. And if you’re like me, you might be tired of being sold to all the time. Every platform we use is selling to us and seeking to condition our behavior. I’m not saying I’m immune—I’m saying I want to write to you here as a balm, one I hope soothes. Maybe we could both benefit from a slow-cooked meal. I figure it’s worth the try.

What excites me about this platform is the opportunity to bring stories to you, delivered right to your digital doorstep, instead of solely relying on massive established social tools to do all the lifting for us. It’ll be a little more word-of-mouth than algorithmically supercharged, which feels nice at this moment.

Because I have refused to become more economical in my prose over my career, there’s a strong chance certainty that what I send you will often be a little too lengthy to be read in a single trip to the bathroom. I’ve always been what my baby sister calls a “long-sayer,” and our time here is likely to be no different. I’ll try and section things out, but, like Sinatra, I gotta be me. And while my plan is to work on it regularly, I’m not totally sure yet what the schedule here might be. Could be monthly. After the first couple, anyway.

Make no mistake, given its niche nature I am aware this room will be more of an intimate one than a grand theatre, but as long as you’re here, well, we have enough audience for a conversation.

I’m nervous, to be honest. Like a band playing its very first gig. But hey, performance anxiety is one of those things that, wait for it, can’t be helped.

That’ll be about all for today. When next we meet, I’ll tell you a story about my childhood, and what I wanted to be when I grew up.

We’re not there just yet, though.

Be well,

-Brendan P. McGuirk