Special announcement

Three years of “Are you wearing that?” and I have something else to tell you

In late 2022, I was inspired by the recommendations newsletters I received from a few Substack accounts I followed, so I began to record and share personal notes on the books, films, letters, fashion shows, recipes, articles, and more that I engaged with here. I called this practice Tiny Pleasures, and I released four of these monthly newsletters —1, 2, 3, 4—before quietly putting the series on hold last year. Initially, I thought I’d include a mix of what I liked in addition to fashion news and other fashion-related content I wanted to share. In my short time writing it, I struggled with my desire to deviate from fashion-related content, doubting that I needn’t contribute to the recommendations cycle and fulfilling my agreements for “Are you wearing that?”

Much has been written about recommendation-based content and the resulting flattening of culture, to say nothing of overconsumption. I have toyed with the idea of bringing Tiny Pleasures back many times over the past 16 months and have sat with the tension between my desire to share what I find delightful and my reservations about having people interpret my taste and feelings as instructions on how to be. 

To that end, most of what I chose to write about were items or objects that caused me to have a sensation or experience versus something I had purchased. For that reason, it did not surprise me that the most warmly received elements of Tiny Pleasures were the inclusion of visual elements (mood boards, images, film stills) and the overall sense of thoughtfulness, which reflected the considerable time and care I put into the writing. Still, I felt my impulses towards curiosity and restraint pulling me in different—often opposite directions. I stopped sharing my lists publicly to consider this tension and see where it took me.  

I have spent many, many hours thinking about whether I could transpose Tiny Pleasures to a new context that better reflects my approach to consumption in relation to my politics, especially as it has developed in the last two years.

I want to try something new.  

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A few months ago, Substack reached out to meet with me and discuss ways to grow my newsletter. Unbeknownst to them, I had put “growing my audience” on hold since late 2022. 

On our video call, the representative who initiated the meeting said she had never heard of my newsletter and that I flew under her radar, which was unsettling. She advised me on branding and spoke to me as if I were a novice when, in reality, I helped build this platform’s fashion credibility. I learned about Substack from journalist friends—this platform did not consider fashion writers until last year. When I launched in this space, there were ten or fewer fashion-centric newsletters that I was aware of. Most of my readers created their accounts to follow my newsletter, so hearing that I had gone unnoticed by Substack enraged me.

Around the same time, I learned that another stranger on Substack was stealing my work. I discovered this when she liked a post within a few minutes of my publishing it. I clicked on her profile to see that she was remixing concepts I’d spent years creating for her audience without mentioning, let alone crediting, me. This woman can steal from me because she thinks no one will find out. I do not wish to organize a witch hunt—that only feels temporarily fulfilling and also against my political praxis—and she is not the first person to plagiarize my work. But she is the last person who will destabilize me and remove me from the gratitude I feel for my work practice. 

My motivation has never been money. I demand that any work I do cover my living expenses, but I am strict about not attaching my self-worth to how much I make. Removing energy from growing my subscriber list was a response to my contentment with how much I made via Substack. 

I believe in incremental growth, which has allowed me to make mistakes and learn from them without pressure. Recently, a magazine contacted me about writing for them, and I was immediately apprehensive because I did not want to be “exposed.” I avoided exposure with my vintage business. I rarely do interviews because I do not want the wrong people to find me and because writers rarely ask questions I want to engage with. I can now articulate that I was afraid of entering the white mainstream because it was antithetical to occupying this space I built for myself. I am already in the mainstream—the one that matters to me.

However, I am tired of existing in obscurity. So many people have benefitted from my choosing to share my work on Substack and gained confidence from my success in launching their publications. I should not be under anyone’s radar. Far too often, Black women receive flowers on their graves, never while they revel in them, and I will not be robbed of that. I am adamant about it. 

Readers know the care I take with every newsletter I send: my writing and personal styling practice involves rigorous revisions, corrections, and testing. I have devoted myself to this practice because I owe you that. It's a contract I take more seriously than if an institution or corporation employed me. In return, I need your protection. I need preservation so that I can sustain this work. My enthusiasm wanes when I feel the relationship between myself and my readers is transactional. You are paying me for a service, but what I share is miles ahead of that. And so I want more.

I feel strongly that the exchange between creatives and their audience should involve preservation and care for the artist, craftsman, writer, et al. to continue doing the work that they enjoy. In my 20s, recognition for my talents meant a feature in Vogue. Now, in my 30s, I do not want a profile in The Cut by someone who has never read my writing: an open acknowledgment from peers I respect, and you who support my work is my desire. 

I receive many private messages about how my newsletter has transformed your wardrobes. I am verklempt when I open these messages because your words give me the confidence to continue. At the same time, sharing how this newsletter has impacted you publicly allows people to attach my name to my words, which deters other people from looking to extract what they have not sown. I do not want virality—I want to be very clear on that. But I love reading public reviews of the newsletter because those words are available to everyone. This isn’t about gaining more subscribers; it’s about ensuring your people know I am here.

I do not want you to only extend this care and preservation to me. I have watched financially and socially successful artists burn out because their relationship to their work feels extractive and not reciprocated. We can't continue to complain, sigh, fold our arms with docility. We are responsible. Infinite growth is not possible. 

I request that this becomes your practice for everything you consume and enjoy. If you are tired of the frauds and imposters, you are responsible for elevating what you wish to see more of. Water and feed the art that feeds you so that it will continue to produce flowers and fruits for you to enjoy. 

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Tiny Pleasures is returning, but not online. Instead, I am producing a physical newsletter because the medium appeals to my curiosity and simultaneously encourages restraint. These dynamics will guide this project. Acknowledging their interplay has allowed me to cultivate a practice that is both disciplined and expansive, focused yet open to possibility.

Tiny Pleasures is about accidental discovery and familiarity. It’s about falling in rhythm with your surroundings and reintroducing yourself to what you might already know. It is about devoting close attention to what is already in your life and noticing what you like. It isn’t about novelty; it’s about experiences, art, and items that have delighted us over time. 

When I dreamt of the new Tiny Pleasures, I imagined it as something tangible to borrow, gift, save, frame, and reread. I hope to highlight the talented artists, writers, and creatives I’m familiar with and the ones I hope to discover via submissions. 

This new iteration will, in many ways, continue my previous letters—it will still include my read-watch-listen list and an editor’s note. But it will also feature guest essays, film/music/art/book/experience reviews, interviews, photo features, recipes from my hospitality-inclined friends, poetry, local recommendations (yes) from readers, and more. It will not feature writing or thinking that regurgitates ideas from the online spaces we are all familiar with. While the form and content will evolve from issue to issue, what will remain consistent is my commitment to publishing work that is grounded in consideration and introspection.

There will be no promotion of Tiny Pleasures outside of two announcements. This venture is not about growth, and to that end, I do not plan to advertise, create an Instagram page, or send reminders to convince you to participate. If you feel compelled, you will actively seek out our website, and if you enjoy what you receive, you will share it with your people. 

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“Are you wearing that?” will remain on Substack. Tiny Pleasures is going offline. If you’d like to be notified when our first issue is available for purchase, please fill out this Google Form.