It’s Getting Mighty Crowded in Here

[Ellen Stader wowing the crowd at Hyde Park Theatre.]

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Kara and I met up for one of our power catch-up sessions. Early birds, we found the large cafe nearly empty when we arrived. We sat at a small deuce in the window, and my tastebuds danced a sentimental jig at being allowed access to a plateful of college town hangover food—once a staple, now a rare treat. I am so at ease in my friend’s company, talking about tools and tires and trauma and triumphs. We linger for hours and I hope the waitress can tell just from chatting with us that yes, we will tip sufficiently to cover our campout fee.

In the time we sit together, I am focused on the conversation, do not notice a slow tide of customers rolling in. Then, suddenly, I look up and take in the crowd, and the spell of the morning is broken. “Wow,” I say to my friend, “I gotta get out of here. Now. Too loud.”

Because she understands me and my anxiety and PTSD, Kara has no negative reaction to my abrupt conclusion to our conversation. We scramble out and as soon as the door shuts and the din is behind us and we are out on the relatively empty street, I can exhale again.

That scene has stayed with me, proffered analogy. Before I explain, first a Hypocrite Warning. One thing that really annoys me on Substack is people writing about Substack. It’s like slam poets who slam poems about slamming poetry. Just No. And yet, here I am, about to write about Substack. But only briefly, and just this once, I swear.

It occurred to me that these days, Substack feels a lot like that restaurant felt the moment I looked up, saw and heard the crowd, had to bolt. There are just so many conversations going on. It doesn’t matter if they are the most interesting conversations that have ever been conversed. The sheer volume is too much, too off-putting. (There are about six substacks I read regularly because that’s all the conversation I can handle.)

And yet—Hypocrite Warning Number Two!—does that stop me from contributing to the cacophony on a weekly basis? Obviously, it does not. I mean, you’re reading this, right?

Sometimes I think that I just should stop the writing entirely. I don’t mean that in some over-the-top, dramatic way: I QUIT! Nor am I fishing here, hinting around for some validation, some insistence from y’all that I must carry on, my voice is that unique, etc etc. That’s very nice to hear, and I’m grateful for having heard it over the years—thank you. But one of the very many things I love about being a crone is my increasing awareness of just how not unique and not crucial I am.

I am, to borrow from Nick Cave, a microscopic cog in a catastrophic plan. This knowledge comforts me so much. Among other things, it allows me to strive, with greater effort every day, to actually—no, seriously—exist in the present. The older I get, the less I feel compelled to use the page, especially the public page, to sort through my past shit. I’m glad for having done it. I’m grateful for all the clarity, validation and community it fostered. I don’t feel a need to do it much anymore.

The lessening compulsion to write is fed by dwindling inspiration—as an elder I go on fewer geographic adventures and, thankfully, because I am no longer puppeteered by hormones, I have almost no big emotional disasters to record anymore. My greatest dramas these days involve hooved critters, flailing lawnmowers, and bed-shitting a/c units. A most welcome change from my moister, saltier, youthful follies.

But there’s something else tamping down the old urges to put my story on the page.

Here we circle back to the crowded restaurant metaphor. Everyone is a writer now. The playing field may not be completely level but the Internet—combined with the power of personal computers, smart phones, tiny cameras, and apps—has allowed not just writers but talent from all walks—photography, film, fashion, music—to break out without having to go through the old school patriarchal good old white boy machine.

That’s good news for aspirational creatives who can use “free” platforms to instantly upload themselves to hopeful stardom. Also bad news for those hoping to make an actual living at self-exposure, since supply far outweighs demand. To be clear, I’m not trying to dissuade anyone from pursuing their influencer dreams. I’d have to issue Hypocrite Warning Number Three if I condemned these social media attention seekers—I spent decades cultivating likes and followers and clicks and blah blah blah. Until suddenly I looked up and the roar of the crowd no longer called to me. It repelled me.

I’m so glad I was born when I was, and got to have thirty years on the planet before home computers and the World Wide Web became readily accessible. I’m so grateful to have those decades as reference points to turn to as I look for ways to escape the crowded restaurant that is the internet and get back to my analog roots. Imagine this—mine is the last generation (or perhaps penultimate generation) that got to experience adolescence without the internet. Things that make me happiest these days usually involve: yarn; clay; vegetable chopping; walking; reading books with my ears; jumping in cold springs; interacting in person with people at the museum, in my workshops, over meals, and at my feed-the-homeless gig.

Which somehow brings me all the way around to an event I hosted last week at Hyde Park Theatre. Thanks to creative director Ken Webster’s kindness and willingness to provide space for my wacky ideas, I have been putting on shows there since 2006. That’s when I first staged what was supposed to be a one night blood-letting, spleen-venting, sustained howl I needed to publicly unleash in the aftermath of my second divorce. The show was called The Dick Monologues, Many of my writer girlfriends—and Southpaw Jones—joined in with their own literary offerings. It went over so well that the show turned into a regular, then semi-regular show for many years.

Also, I would occasionally host public readings there for writers from my workshops, something I had not done since before lockdown. Last Wednesday was the revival show, the start of what I hope will be an ongoing reading series.

Every show I have ever hosted featuring workshop writers has—I mean this truly—been magical. Wednesday was no exception. Well, actually it was an exception, in that the magic felt exceptionally exceptional. The positive energy was palpable. Afterwards I got feedback from a number of audience members who all voiced a similar sentiment—whatever they had been anticipating, the event delivered above and beyond. One attendee said, “The whole event made me feel that people are still wonderful and beautiful.”

I know what it was. I know why the magic was extra magic. The crowd numbered five dozen, including the fourteen readers and rounded out entirely by loving, supportive friends and family. The number was manageable, intimate even. And we all knew we were safe. By safe, primarily I mean safe to share our stories, our writing, to know there would be respect and active listening by an audience filled with loved ones. But also, the reward of a greater sense of safety, like for those two shared hours we were safe together in a world that feels anything but safe right now.

Any devices—phones, tablets—were used only to photo document, or be read from like a composition book. And, okay, I will grant y’all that an iPad was used to play No Parking on the Dance Floor at one point. Other than that, electronics were not used. Not for phone calls or scrolling or texting. This was a rare, too brief window, a place entered into and mutually shared. No hierarchy, no high priest. No distractions. Humans listening to humans sharing stories that really did make us laugh and cry with collective resonance.

I feel, very strongly, that story is to the heart/soul/mind what breath is to the body. Story isn’t optional. Story is necessary. Story is sustenance. Story is how we sort the shit, make the plan, exorcise the trauma. Story is mandatory. Story is not without pitfalls. But story is crucial. Story is medicine we can self-administer—in private journals, contemplative meditations. It is also medicine when shared, via print on the page, with others who find comfort in our written accounts. But story is most healing of all when we share it, out loud, in the same physical space as others. Story is most powerful when it is heard, and when we experience it being heard in real time. And then, when it is our turn to listen, we listen deeply, and get to feel that other important part of the interdependence equation: witnessing.

We need more of this thing, a thing no amount of AI will ever be able to replicate. No number of virtual likes and shares can create. It’s a thing we did so easily years ago, before the screens took over. It is the equivalent of stepping outside of the overcrowded, too noisy Cafe de Internet, and into the refreshing air of true connection.

What are you doing to connect in real life?

JOY & BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

THE LAWN MOWER REPORT

I was using my recently repaired push mower to tackle some rather tall grass. I know, I know—no matter how hot it is and no matter how lazy I’m feeling, I really ought to take the time to put on boots. But once again I mowed in sneakers. The good news is—it wasn’t a rattlesnake that got me. The bad news is—fire ant hill. I did extinguish the fire temporarily with this handy water trough.

NOTES

Thanks for being here. Bonus thanks to my paid subscribers who help keep gas in the mowers. If you are reading for free and can manage to bump up to $5 per month or $30 per year that would really Rock my Casbah. All paid subscribers are officially known as Tiny T Ranch hands, which you are allowed to put on your CV and LinkedIn profile.

The next public reading at Hyde Park Theatre will be in October. Ticket info soon. If you’re interested in participating as a reader, all you need to do is attend some of my writing workshops, nearly all of which are either free or donation-based. Here’s a list of upcoming workshops:

UPCOMING WORKSHOPS

MONDAYS—Ongoing: 10 am-noon San Marcos Public Library FREE just show up.

MONDAYS— Aug 18 - Sept 29, 1:30-3:30, Hyde Park Theatre, $20 suggested donation. PLEASE REGISTER HERE. It is free to register.

SATURDAY SEPT 6, 2025: RANCH WRITING DAY 10 am - 1 pm Donation based.($20 suggested) Please register here.

TUESDAY August 12 5:30 - 7:30 Hampton Branch Library FREE Register here.

FRIDAY August 29 4:00-5:30 Garfield Public Library FREE. Just show up.

I also have a substack for writers—all levels welcome—with writing prompts, articles about writing, and no paywall. Check it out: WriteWithSpike.substack.com