I appeared on PBS’ To The Contrary, and discussed women and the job market, as well as the Democratic Party’s attempts to rebrand. Watch here:
In Praise Of The Elderly White Hippies
Following the Trump takeover of Washington, D.C., my regular morning runs have become an inventory of the missing unhoused people, gone from their usual places.
She’s gone. She was by the Washington Monument.
He’s gone. He sat in a wheelchair, by the Metro.
Gone, gone, gone. So many gone. Have they been shipped to El Salvador? Sudan? Louisiana? They have committed no crime, no crime but homelessness. Poverty. Mental illness. In no true reading of a law book are these actually crimes. They simply have nowhere else to go.
Until the troops came. God, the troops are so young. I see them on my runs, early in the morning. I study their faces. Do they know what this country was, not so long ago? A democracy. An imperfect democracy where you could work on making it more of a democracy.
So this is the context in which White House hatelord Stephen Miller sneered at pro-democracy protesters shouting down his press conference as “elderly hippies,” “stupid white hippies,” who “all need to go home and take a nap because they’re over 90 years old.”
My dear elderly white hippies, please keep it going. We love you so much. Take all the naps you need, friends. We all should. This will be a long fight and we’re best served by people willing to take care of themselves and fight to the end.
And if you think calling us names is going to make us go away? You’re wrong.
Zero Hour: Colonoscopy
“She was tired of being embarrassed by the things her body did or did not do without her conscious input in the decision.” – emily m. danforth, “Plain Bad Heroines”
I wake up at 5 a.m. to mix the drink. I sit in the partial dark, drinking Suflave with a straw. A new timer goes off each 15 minutes, telling me to do it again. My stomach rumbles. Oh, how it rumbles.
Today is my first colonoscopy. Yes, I am sharing the story before it is complete. But I also believe that this piece of the experience — the prep, the intentionally making yourself sick — is the one that people are most afraid of. Including myself.
Could it be that most of our irrational fears begin in childhood? My intense fear of vomiting started in preschool. Mind you, I didn’t vomit myself. But I was wearing a snappy blue sweatsuit with satin planets sewn on. It was my favorite sweatsuit.
A girl named [REDACTED, IT’S SUCH A UNIQUE NAME THAT I WOULD DIE IF YOU RECOGNIZED YOURSELF HERE] and I were walking alongside the plastic bins that tame the beads and Duplos and shit. These were the final moments of my beloved sweatsuit. I believed it to be irreplaceable. That said, it probably came from J.C. Penney. I was neither in a position to understand this, nor to take myself shopping. To appreciate the fleeting and cyclical nature of possessions was above my skillset. This is fine. I was young. So young.
In a moment I believed to be without warning, [REDACTED] proceeded to vomit all over me.
This was the moment when my fear of throwing up locked in. I don’t know how to explain it, but I loved my sweatsuit with the satin planets. It was simultaneously comfortable, practical, and jazzy. And my sweatsuit with the satin planets was ruined.
Also ruined? My previously implicit trust in the orderly.
Whatever its origin story, my fear of the unruly gastrointestinal is not particularly unique, I guess. No one really likes acid out the front or a mess out the back. It doesn’t feel good, and it is a physical manifestation of how out of our control our bodies actually are.
I write, as I wait for burbling abdomen to take over.
This morning is my second round of prep. I did one last night. The truth is, it went fine. My flashbacks to the cloying gestational diabetes test drink from pregnancy were not instructive: I have not had difficulty choking the colonoscopy prep solution down. Nor has the inevitable result been nearly as dramatic as suggested by other people with anxiety on the internet.
Now that I have hurdled the fence of my initial resistance, I’m casting my net wider, to the societal level. Why such a taboo about our bodies, and this colonoscopy test in particular? Literally everyone has a body that acts more or less the same way. I am not advocating for the crass. But who does it serve, when we are made to fear and loathe the normal and natural?
A crappy day or two is nothing, compared to cancer prevention.
May 2025 To The Contrary Appearance
I appeared on PBS’ To The Contrary, and discussed DEI in business, and boys falling behind. Watch here:
I’m Writing A Novel, For Real This Time
In my twenties, I quit my job several times to write a novel. The premise was: working was incompatible with writing a novel.
This assumption of needing to stop everything to write a novel is especially hilarious now. Fast forward to 45, when I’m writing a novel, for real this time. And leading a non-profit organization. And married with a school-age child. And providing elder care support as the only child of my lovely parents. And completing an MFA in creative writing. And chairing a board of directors. And volunteering with the school. And going to church. And running a few marathons a year.
Writing a novel while I’m doing an ungodly number of things is weird, but I’m actually doing it. I’ve puttered around the margins of this story for years, trying to write my way in. How many times have I started a new draft, a new outline? It was time that I needed. Because now, the real novel is on.
I’ve written hundreds of pages, and write four a day on average. Every day. No matter what. I have an outline I’m more than halfway through, and am 136 pages into the draft that is actually going to be the real first draft, the serious first draft. The first time I ran a marathon I started tearing up around mile 24 because I realized I was far enough to actually finish. I have reached this feeling with this novel. I trust it. I will finish this first serious draft.
How is this possible? Especially given the number of commitments I’ve listed above?
Here’s my secret: Writing my novel is actually the most relaxing thing I do.
It’s gotten to the point where I’m in out-of-body mode when I’m writing my novel. I just zone out and let ‘er rip on the page.
Perhaps I have reached the maturity to write in flow (I am a merciless self-editor) because I have finally come to accept the real thing they teach you in MFA programs. Everything you write is only going to be rewritten. Again. Again. And again. And just when you think you’re about done, someone new will tell you to take it from the top once more in this new way that requires more work, more time. (The never-ending workshops of the MFA are their own topic, but I will note with envy the wise words of one of my favorite colleagues in my program: “I hate these people.”)
I have an Oura ring, which is constantly mad at me, in its polite Finnish way. I have learned: My body is showing a physiological stress response pretty much all the time. For example: Folding laundry is especially rough on my stress levels, apparently. But this is not addressable. I am a mom. I am always folding laundry. This fact is only made worse by the fact that I’m a distance runner. Talk about heart rate. (In an amusing paradox, whereas my husband very much wants his Apple Watch to track every bit of exercise he does for tracking purposes, I sometimes take my ring off for a long run so it won’t dock my readiness scores for the next few days.)
The amazing thing is the proof of my novel love is in my pulse. Short of sleep, there is no time my body is more relaxed than when I am writing my novel. Interestingly, this doesn’t apply to other times I am writing (creatively or professionally) or working at the same computer and desk. But if my vanilla novel-writing candle is lit, and I’ve got my coffee cup beside me, and the for-real first draft is open, it’s on.
And this is how I know that I’m writing a novel for real this time. That I’ll actually finish. That it doesn’t matter if I have a million other things going on. Because writing the novel has become the best part of my day, and I miss it when I’m not doing it. I want to be in that seat even when the scene is sputtering. The novel is not an aspiration, a chore, or even an end. The process has become the point.
As with running, when I’m writing the novel I am free. In a trance. Who cares if it’s any good? I don’t think I’ve done anything as beneficial for my mental and physical health in years.
March 2025 To The Contrary Appearance
I appeared as a guest on PBS’ To The Contrary, and discussed economic uncertainty, as well as abuse of housekeepers:
Domestic Violence Is Terrorism, And The Problem Of Pete Hegseth
Domestic violence is terrorism. While anyone can be a target, and anyone can be a perpetrator, domestic violence’s primary form is the domination of individual men over individual women. But the individual stories that make up domestic violence are not one-offs, or even a pattern: they are a systemic expression of male domination. Domestic violence is patriarchy, most literally weaponized at the most elemental building block of society: within the human relationship of family.
I’m going to start with some definitions, and then discuss how they fall short. Finally, I’d like to examine how acknowledging domestic violence as terrorism further elaborates upon the dangerous, unqualified nature of Pete Hegseth’s nomination to be Secretary of Defense.
I do need to disclaimer these definitions of domestic violence and terrorism to follow, because at the time of writing (January 22), we are three days into the second Trump administration and it seems that any moment the Department of Justice will no longer have an Office on Violence Against Women, or if it does, this page will become really fucking weird. So, too, the FBI website is about to become a new outpost of RT or some such, and one can only imagine what definition of terrorism is going to slide onto this website when the top priority of the authoritarian president and wack-a-doodle FBI director is ‘RETRIBUTION.’ (And how long until someone is punished either directly by the state or by agents operating on its behalf for writing a paragraph such as this? Oh well, part of the way autocracy works is fear on the part of the people, including self-censorship, and I will be calling for free speech from the rafters until I’m hauled out!)
At the time of writing, here’s the definition of domestic violence from the Department of Justice’s Office on Violence Against Women, quoted, and with a screen shot below for posterity:
Domestic violence is a pattern of abusive behavior in any relationship that is used by one partner to gain or maintain power and control over another intimate partner. Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, psychological, or technological actions or threats of actions or other patterns of coercive behavior that influence another person within an intimate partner relationship. This includes any behaviors that intimidate, manipulate, humiliate, isolate, frighten, terrorize, coerce, threaten, blame, hurt, injure, or wound someone.
And also at the time of writing, the definition of terrorism from the FBI before inevitably Trump 2.0 changes it, again with a screen shot to help future us remember ‘the way we were’:
International terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups who are inspired by, or associated with, designated foreign terrorist organizations or nations (state-sponsored).
Domestic terrorism: Violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, social, racial, or environmental nature.
The domination of men over women in abusive relationships is absolutely a “violent, criminal act committed … to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of a political, religious, or social … nature.” In fact, keeping women in line with rigid gender roles in which men reign supreme is one of the chief outcomes of domestic violence. It’s an ideological goal absolutely supported by a toxic culture. I’d argue the only reason why this no-brainer isn’t already recognized is because of, you guessed it, systemic sexism that has permeated societies for literal ages.
Which brings me to the latest news of Pete Hegseth, that allegedly alcoholic and misogynistic (both allegations backed by piles of eyewitness accounts and unsavory quotes that have been reported in the media!) television anchor who has never managed a large, sophisticated organization. He is incredibly unqualified to run the Department of Defense, and in normal times within our democracy, when both parties had a commitment to vetting nominees regardless of how much power they held, his nomination would not remain a going concern.
But these are not normal times within our democracy.
Now Mr. Hegseth’s former sister-in-laws says he abused his second wife. The other disqualifications were disqualifying. This is even more disqualification, and perhaps the most of the most disqualification. The Department of Defense is intimately engaged in the battle against terrorism. If we accept that domestic violence is terrorism (as we should), then it follows that these allegations, if true, mean that Mr. Hegseth has no place in a position that is at least supposed to fight for the ideals of freedom, justice, and security.
My Online Real Estate Obsession
I have many pathologies, one of them is compulsive use of a website, Redfin.com.
There are many cities in which I look at homes. I look at homes for hours. I will never live in these homes. I will never live in these cities. Many of these cities I don’t even want to live in.
Nor am I looking to move at this time.
I hate moving, actually. I hate boxes and packing them and especially, unpacking them. It is why I still have unpacked boxes from moves several years ago.
But here is what I love: fantasy.
The fantasy of having a slide that shoots from the upstairs to the playroom in the basement (what lucky children live there)!
The fantasy of an old-school elevator, the kind with a collapsible metal screen painted black instead of a proper door, or an outdoor shower by the sea.
The fantasy of any number of architectural styles having nothing to do with one another: mid-century modern, Victorian vampire, camelback fixer-upper, exposed brick artist loft, ugly nouveau riche McMansion (often contains provocative innovations in toileting equipment).
I have realized what this is about. I want to have multiple lives, as many lives as possible.
I want more.
The older I get, the more I have seen the irrevocable finitude of others. And I see my finitude. This one life of mine is moving fast, seemingly accelerating because that is what happens when you gain perspective by way of time.
By fantasizing about a succession of alternate lives, I am able to pretend I have more runway than I probably do. (Though I consider myself to be quite healthy and put effort into that—it would be awesome to live as long as possible.)
I rawdog this website, Redfin.com, no account, no app, gawking homes in my pretend cloak of anonymity.
Of course every site I’ve ever visited is tracking me with “cookies.”
Of course Mark Zuckerberg, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and the supposedly depersonalized algorithm know everything.
Redfin.com and the whole internet control apparatus knows damn well I’m a middle-age woman with a long list of additional monetizable insecurities and obsessions (to flatter the ego, we’ll relabel them ‘aspirations’) not specified here. This is escapism with no escape hatch.
What Does It Mean To Be A Writer In The Trump Era?
I’ve been thinking on what it means to be a writer in the Trump era.
It means nothing good.
The latest salvo in the assault on the press out of the dictator-elect looks like a lawsuit against The Des Moines Register and others for publishing a poll that suggested Kamala Harris would win the state on election day (she didn’t).
This comes on the heels of a $15 million settlement payment from ABC to Donald Trump following a defamation lawsuit he filed regarding George Stephanopoulos’ characterization of E. Jean Carroll v. Trump, a civil suit in which Trump was found liable for sexual abuse.
To wind it back, so what does this mean for writers?
The next phase of Trumpism hasn’t even taken the reins yet, and it’s clear that speech is out for punishment.
As a hobby I study authoritarian governments and their effects on societies, and I think an instructive example is to look toward Russia, the country that gave literature Tolstoy, Chekov, Gogol … and then,
nothing.
There is nothing like a vindictive, hostile state demanding obedience to kill the publication of creativity.
I’ve also been thinking about the disturbing trend of book bans, and the edict in Project 2025 that school librarians be registered as sex offenders if the censors deem they have been providing sexually explicit material.
And I’ve also been thinking about trends within the left that also hamper free speech. I’ve noticed a definite uptick among colleagues and friends with concern that speaking out of turn will lead to getting cancelled. This is quite frightening at a time when the left needs to robustly champion open and free debate. The right is sure as hell not going to do it.
I’ve heard it said before, “reading is thinking on the page.” So, too, is writing.
So here’s what I think: To be a writer in the Trump era–a writer, not a sycophant–is going to require taking creative risks at even greater levels than before. It is an audacious thing to believe one has something to contribute. Only growing moreso.
I Actually Have No Idea How Fast I Am Going
I write about running a lot, because I run a lot. Perhaps too much. It is entirely possible that my running is detracting from my writing. It used to be the case that when I got up early, I would write. Now when I get up early, I run. Or I start working on my job so that I have time to run when it gets light outside. If I’m being honest, I have too many [waves hands] hobbies.
But running gives me energy. That feeds my ability to write. And my ability to give my best thwack to fighting the hateful ideas behind gender-based oppression, which, tbh, is not an easy nutcracker to ballet.
I work out many ideas on my feet.
I am a middle-age recreational lady runner. For that demographic, I take it seriously. For years I’ve kept a daily journal noting time, distance, pace. I schedule my runs. I compete against myself like whoa. (The only person you’re ever really competing against is yourself, I’ve learned. All these lessons are for running and so much more.)
One thing I’ve been focusing on is my speed. Training myself to run faster is fun. In this process, I have realized that I actually have no idea how fast I am going. Sometimes, I look at my device and realize I’m going like a minute per mile faster than I thought I was. Much more often, I think I’m going fast, and I’m like slo-mo runner in actuality.
I think to the times in my life when I’ve crashed or burned out, and how this lack of self-awareness about self in relation to time and space chases me. Me chasing me without realizing I’m doing it. But also how there are times that I think I’m going fast when actually, it’s an illusion and I need to buck up to hit the mark.
To know oneself in relationship to an actual measurement of velocity is somewhat akin to the experience of seeing yourself on video. This is how I look from outside the blinders of my body? Really?
Sometimes I think I can understand others better than I can myself. And to be clear, I’m constantly confuzzled by others. Who is this me in the sneakers? How fast is she going? I dunno.
Erin Matson 