I’m out of my witch costume, people.
I put marigolds in the ground for All Souls yesterday.
It’s November’s golden hour now, the time when busy squirrel-creatures like myself, say to no one in particular: What am I doing next year?
I like plans. I like my squirrel cheeks bursting with hazelnuts.
With my advancing age, and the current arc of bending injustices, my hopeful question is perhaps a moot point. Who cares about loving plans if we’re kissing our asses goodbye in 2026?
If this was a satiric game show, the answers to “Your Plans Next Year?” would include “Disappearing into a gulag,” “Chain gang,” and “Getting swept away by a wave of fire and ice.”
Hopefully I get in my licks, before I get caught inside.
Nevertheless, I have things I wanna do while I still have my wits about me, and I’m stubborn about cramming them in.
For one, BEFORE the end of this year, I’ll be voting with my fellow professional film critics on our choices for the best films of the year— essentially our advice to the Academy Awards.
And yeah, we have influence with them, it’s probably the most important thing we do all year.
I have about 50+ movies I need to review chop-chop and make my recommendations— of course, I’ll be sharing the goodies with YOU. Get ready for movie-heavy posting in November and December, along with my book picks.
Feel free to lobby me! —Go ahead! “Susie Bright, you simply must vote for Pedro Pascal in The Materialists!” —And then when Pedro hits the red carpet, you can say YOU were the mastermind!
You will not be surprised to hear that the most riveting films in every category are not the slop you’ve been offered at the local chain theater. If you don’t live in a major film hub, you’ve been cruelly left out in the cold. (This includes me since Santa Cruz’s last indie theater closed during COVID).
Believe me, the independent and global moviemakers are dying to reach you. Mainstream studios have never been so irrelevant on the creative wavelength. Americans are the last to know of literature and cinema’s bleeding edge at this point.
But more on that later!
Let’s get back to what I’m doing in 2026:
Best American Erotica — If It Walks Like A Duck
After a 20+ year effort, I got the rights back to my decades-long Best American Erotica series.
Man! The books are long out-of-print in paperback, and they were never published as e-books.1
So . . . I’m going resurrect the best. I’m going to release my favorites of the Best American Erotica short stories as e-books— by sympathetic theme instead of year, to make a bit more sense of it.2
For example: Crime/Noir, Science Fiction, Fantasy. Lesbian life, Gay life, Black life. All the beds! I’m still sorting it out. It’s basically every theme and community whose lives were hushed up at the turn of the century. Did we ever shake things up!
I’m so proud of these short works. We were ahead of our time: not the “sex” part, but contemporary American lit. It’s obvious in hindsight.
In the 90s, we were writing about pandemics and robots and late-stage shittification, families and lovers who broke all the dishes, genderfuck, 21st century blood oaths, virtual reality, bodies that no one had talked about before. —All under the guise of erotica. We weren’t as horny as we were subversive.
In the early BAE’s, I included a few famous writers of the day— our series was considered so risqué that Nicholson Baker and Anne Rice were warned against it— but when I go through the archives now, I realize I was publishing the next great generation of American writers, in every genre:
Alex Chee, Nalo Hopkinson, Sera Gamble, Cecilia Tan, Ed Falco, Ben Neihart, William Harrison, Jerry Stahl, Dodie Bellamy, Matt Bernstein Sycamore, Poppy Z. Brite,
Edo Van Belkom, Karl Iagnemma, Pam Ward, Myriam Gurba, Steven Saylor, Jim Strouse, Chip Delany, Roxane Gay, Nelson George, Touré, Bernice McFadden, Michael Lowenthal,
Danielle Willis, Robert Gluck, Michelle Tea, Steve Almond, Maria Dahvana Headley, Rachel Kramer Bussell, Mary Gaitskill, Tom Perrotta, Peggy Munson, Greta Christina.
—To name a FEW. They were relative nobodies at the time.
And don’t even get me going about the late Maggie Estep, Shay Youngblood, Bob Flanagan, Leslie Feinberg, Kevin Killian, Ron Sukenick. The late John Preston ripped an IV out of arm to sign a contract for me, even though I was shouting for him to stop, that I’d forge it!
But John said, “This is the only thing that matters.” He died hours later. HOURS.
Octavia Butler died as we were preparing her manuscript, and I’ve never had such a shock. She had a heart attack on her porch out in the country, and she never knew how the whole world was about to go Octavia-crazy.
At the time, these authors were hustling under-grounders. How dare we write complicated trigger-happy erotic short stories! Believe me, this was not “Dragon-Princess-YA-Erotica,” no-sirree. These writers exploded genres like tiddlywinks. We had NOTHING to lose.
It was a lot.
Here’s the thing about getting your literary rights back: it’s worth it, yes, especially when you are old, cranky, and fixin’ to die like me. Tick tock, gentlemen!
The Lamy Station
I’ve been writing a novel the past 2 years. I’m in the thick of it now, after a naughty leave of absence.
What is it? Okay, here’s the pitch: it’s the dyke version of The Third Man. Gonna make Graham Greene proud, right? I plan to.
I’m thinking about whether to leak an opening chapter here or not. Feel free to bribe or cajole— or if you’re a writer, perhaps you will tell me to keep my mouth shut.
Publishing is changing so fast right now, you’re not going to recognize it by first quarter of 2026. We’ll come back to that later.
Bill and Susie Poetry
When my dad was alive, we took a look at our collection of favorite poetry we’d written over the years. We had a plan. The plan involved printing our poems on letterpress— he had a small one, plus a California Job Case, and was so excited to be studying the trade with Tree and Sam at Copper Canyon Press.
Like so many things, life kept getting in the way; we were yoked to other projects. And then he got sick… and it was really fast. This is what I mean about precious time.
So! I want to publish a collection of our work. A chapbook for sure. Maybe an e-edition too, and I’ll definitely record it.
If any of you have ever worked on a book with your family— or their memory, I’d love to hear your take.
How Do I Pull This Off?
To be frank, by writing this newsletter. It makes me happy, disciplined, and it pays a few bills. Writing my Stacky is my income, that and Social Security. —Which as you know, allows me to roll around naked in dollar bills.
I’m doing most of the book production work myself, (just imagine handling ‘90s digital files) but there’s costs to making books I can’t get around. Nor would I want to! I love to work with cover artists, designers, and printers.
I need a few more subscribers to pull it off.
In previous years I’ve taught classes and edited other people’s manuscripts, but I have to cut back on that. It’s fun, but I lose myself in the captivation of other people’s work. I need to row my own boat.
Get On Board the Night Train
Obviously, those of you who are just getting to know me, I don’t expect you to do a thing.
But, if you read me regularly, if we have a history, if I’ve made a mark in your book of good things, would you consider? —
Annual Subscription - this is my bread and butter. Monthly or annual, it’s fine with me. Subscribe for a little while and dump me if you wish! Or maybe it will be too good to give up.
Gift Sub: this is how you give a subscription to a wonderful friend.
One-Time Payment: Send me a single coin, you decide how much, no subscription at all.
The No-Money Way: If you regularly share my posts with your pals, and any of them subscribe (even for free)— you get complimentary months of my paid access.
In 2026, Lucy Van Pelt will continue to be my spirit guide
For those of you who already paying subscribers:
YES! You’re in on this. You made this past year possible. Thank you, food on the table. My plans to publish. It really is EVERYTHING.
As I finish each new work, I’ll be in touch with each of you, to put the new books into your hands. You get the advance copies.
Much love,
Susie
In Case You Missed It
On the 45th Anniversary of Harvey Milk’s Death
Story by Honey Lee Cottrell, on the anniversary of Harvey Milk’s death.
Thank goodness they re all on audio, because I made a point of it when I was working. At Audible.
I could do it by year, but a title like “BAE 1999” has no resonance with anyone except the most hardened reference librarian nerds.
You inspire the ever-lovin' squirrels outta me! XO!
Pan, thank you so much. If you want to trade paid-comps, let me know!