My take on the new Netflix show Tidying Up with Marie Kondo

For InStyle, I wrote about how the new Netflix show Tidying Up with Marie Kondo inspired me as a hoarder.

My Good Housekeeping debut on why I love clutter

Yes, that's my byline on Good Housekeeping's website, for my essay "I'm Happy With My Clutter, Thank You Very Much." I am, and I'm also very happy to be published somewhere I never thought I'd be, given that I'm so far from being a housekeeper. I also wrote about moving three times in three years for Omni, a new imprint at Medium, with my essay "What I Want in a Home vs. What I Need."

My Washington Post essay on hoarding and love

I have a new essay up at The Washington Post's Post Everything section called "Old magazines, stuffed animals and sex toys: How hoarding shaped my relationship." I wrote the subtitle, they wrote the title, and I also included the photo below of my old Brooklyn apartment. Here's the thing: when you write personal essays, you need to go all in, in my opinion. Not just for your editor's sake, but for yours. I've struggled with writing about some of the worst of my hoarding, because I'd like to think I'm "past it," but as you'll see in the essay, I'm not. Also, this is one of my biggest bylines, so if you like the essay (or feel anything about it, or just want to support my writing career), I'd love it if you'd share it, either publicly or privately with someone who may get something out of it. Yes, I'm a hoarder, but I firmly believe hoarding doesn't only affect "hoarders," but all of us. It's about what we do with our stuff and how we value it, and even compulsively neat people are impacted by fear of becoming hoarders. Also, it's about love, and I am in love, big time.

How many books makes you a book hoarder?

I answer that question as well as whether you can own "too many books" in my latest essay at The Toast, which got picked up by the LA Times blog Jacket Copy! I also shouted out some of my favorite books by authors such as Dylan Landis, Matt Logelin, Mark Haskell Smith and Frank O'Hara. I'm always traveling with several print books as well as many on my Kindle, and it's a struggle sometimes to sit and enjoy one without wanting to immediately also start the next one. If only I had two heads and two sets of brains!

Why I'm a "hopeful hoarder" and not ashamed of loving my stuff

For the Tidy (ha!) issue of TueNight, I wrote "Confessions of a Hopeful Hoarder." Having just moved and gotten reminded umpteen times that I own "too many books," hoarding is very much on my mind these days, though I wrote this before my move.

Hoarding is now officially part of my writing beats

I've officially added hoarding‬ to my beats with "Hoarding Isn't Fashionable or Glamorous" at The Toast and hope to cover it more often (alongside sex, dating, books, pop culture, though I'm open to writing about anything and everything, especially travel and events). I wrote this in response to the infamous Interview magazine hoarding fashion spread (read my piece for the link).

My lesbian hookup apps article in The Village Voice, plus a hoarder turns a new leaf

I wrote about lesbian hookup apps for the Queer Issue of The Village Voice. Yes, it's an odd time to be writing for them, though this piece was assigned before the Michael Musto etc. firings, and was my first for them since my Lusty Lady column ended in 2007.

Comes on the heels of purging so many copies I'd been saving, who knows what for aside from vanity, that were part of the purging in my move. New me will not be getting a hard copy of this issue. See? People can change! I believe I will always be a hoarder, or at least, have a hoarding mentality, but I am trying to be a better person and less attached to possessions. It's a long slog, but if the reward is a home I love rather than one that makes me quake in fear that it might someday have to be shown to another human soul, then it's worth it. That being said, my goal for the rest of this year is to crack some print magazines, where the pay is higher. I don't want my hoarding mania to reach such heights that I only want to write for print publications so there's no more paper in the house! That would be some crazypants version of cutting off my nose to spite my byline. One day, one article, one short story, at a time. I'm trying to tame my ADD mind on my own, through much trial and error. Today that involves physically separating myself from my laptop and phone for extended periods of time so I can read a book I'm writing about and edit short story submission printouts. The lure is there, bigtime, every time I so much as walk by either of them. But I want to prove myself worthy of this new home, this new life. So far I haven't, but I don't plan on going anywhere, so I want to dig down deep into my mental reserves and figure out how to make the most of my time. I certainly know what doing the opposite feels like. Back to that, hopefully with good things to report sooner rather than later.

My hoarding essay "(Mostly) Not Ashamed" in Dancing at the Shame Prom

The anthology Dancing at the Shame Prom: Sharing the Stories That Kept Us Small, edited by Amy Ferris and Holly Dexter (Seal Press) is shipping now from Amazon and includes my essay "(Mostly) Not Ashamed," about hoarding, a follow-up to my Salon hoarding essay. The book will soon be in stores nationwide and I believe will be available as an ebook, but I'm not seeing that listed online right now. I will be reading from my essay on October 11th at 7 p.m. at the JCC in Manhattan at 334 Amsterdam Avenue at 76th Street (my name isn't listed on their site, but I am reading). It's $10 for members, $12 for non-members, with wine and cheese. Find out more at theshameprom.com and check out their Tumblr and share your own shame story at dancingattheshameprom.tumblr.com.

Here's the first three paragraphs of my essay, and please do check out the whole book. Aside from my participation, I'm truly eager to read the whole book as soon as I get my hands on it. Actually, I feel that way about all books by Seal Press, and plan to raid their offices tomorrow when I'm there (kidding, sortof).

I make a living writing about things that most people would find too private, personal and uncomfortable to reveal. I left law school for a career writing about sex and dating, in erotic fiction and first-person accounts. I've covered everything from my bukkake fantasies to hooking up with a Top Chef contestant to mommy play. I've posed nude and gotten hate mail. Being open about sex has never felt unnatural, but it took me a very long time to come to terms with the fact that I'm a hoarder, and even longer to share the word with others.

Hoarding, for most people, conjures up gruesome images. Mention it and you're likely to hear about the Collyer Brothers, who died trapped by their own stuff. Hoarding isn't something I take lightly, but I've finally learned that it's not something I can walk around feeling wracked by shame by or chained to my apartment, constantly sorting and cleaning and feeling guilty. Take me or leave me, but you can't take me without my stuff.

As I type this, I'm sitting in my "bed," which is now just a deconstructed mattress on the floor. The frame, which I've been meaning to throw out on the one designated day my Brooklyn apartment allows large items of trash, is tilted sideways against the wall in the middle of the room. Scattered around are hundreds of books and dozens of articles of clothing, along with random items like pillows and padded envelopes, an ironing board that used to support the mattress, an overturned chair, papers from the early 2000's, neatly placed in labeled files with names like "taxes" and "travel," from back when I made an attempt at organization.

Why I Turned Down $3,000 To Be on a Reality TV Show

In August, I wrote about hoarding in a personal essay for Salon's Mortifying Disclosures section. I'd been debating between cyberstalking and hoarding as my most mortifying disclosures, and went with what I considered the mosre unusual and the more treacherous for me. I received mostly positive feedback to the piece, including some from people I greatly admire (no, I did not read the comments, but a friend read a few aloud to me, including the ones about, sadly and predictably, people who wanted to spank me).

I wound up going on a radio show based on that article and then I was contacted by a reality show, expressing interest in having me on as a guest. I was honored, and intrigued by the fact that I could've made a significant amount more than I was commissioned for the essay, not to mention received organizing services (something I've been paying for piecemeal when I can afford it) something that I think signifies a lot about our media consumption. I eagerly answered their questions, rounded up a friend who might appear to give an assessment, and started to think about what it might really be like to have my every stray pair of underwear, towering stack of books, sex toys, dust bunnies and whatever other detritus I own beamed into conceivably millions of homes.

I don't own a TV and watch very few shows. The ones I do watch are mainly via Netflix rentals, hotel visits, airplane rides and visits to friends. For me, being published at an esteemed site like Salon, which I've been reading for a very long time, was a huge honor. Being on TV would be exciting but also felt a little removed; since I don't watch TV, I have little sense of how many people do watch. It seemed to me like something that happens in some tucked-away corner of the world, even though that equation is actually hugely distorted. Sad as it is to admit, I know it's us readers who are in the minority.

Last year, I flew on my own dime to Los Angeles to appear as a judge on a cooking show. It was a little nervewracking but mostly excited, and it was over almost before it started. I didn't have to worry as much about "being myself" because all I was doing was smiling at the camera and tasting some mini cupcakes (although I did get one of my favorite pieces of hate mail ever calling me "piggish" for licking my fingers after I ate).

The irony of turning down this show about hoarding was that a little while later I found myself without the cushion of a full-time job. Would I have made a different decision if I'd known how that would turn out? I'm not sure. It's very tempting, because turning down money, wherever its source, feels like telling the universe I don't care about paying off my gigantic debts or any kind of financial security. It feels like hubris of the highest order; who am I to be picky, to write for a very small fraction of that fee, or, ahem, blog here for free, but turn down something lucrative?

Many friends and advisers had strong, anti-reality TV reactions. "You won't have any control," the said. "It's exploitative." "They can make you seem any way they want." All true, but those were not reasons that seemed convincing to me. Of course reality TV has an angle; don't we all? Yes, it's edited, but don't we all edit ourselves, presenting our best, or sometimes our worst, selves, or some part of a persona to person X, another part to person Y? That seems to me part of being human. I get that the difference is that when we do it, we are in control of what side of ourselves to show, while an editor can manipulate even the parts of you that you've chosen to present and twist the context. I still think that the risks would have been worth it, for me. Some people are extremely private about most aspects of their lives, but I'm not one of them. For me the catharsis of admitting my biggest flaws and then connecting with others who either share them, as happened with my hoarding essay, or have something useful to offer, outweighs the specter of judgment.

Ultimately, my reasoning was about a much more basic level of self-preservation. I didn't want to have to ask my landlord to sign a legal release that, despite seeming innocuous, was still something I'd have been hesitant to sign myself., and thereby reveal something that might jeopardize my housing. I don't have a Plan B about where to live, and because of my possessions, it would take a few months to even get everything boxed up, unless I were to toss it all in a dumpster.

But back to the legal form…There's something about saying "I promise not to ____" that makes even the least skeptical person, who had never even suspected ____ was possible, read a phrase like that and immediately think "I wonder if they will actually do ____ and if they do, what will happen." Despite having attended three years of law school, contracts make me nervous. The formality of their language is by its nature intimidating. It's not the way we naturally speak, and sometimes seems deliberately designed to obfuscate the truth, requiring a translation. Don't get me wrong; I sign contracts all the time, but I am aware of their limitations.

I'm not a fan of flowery, academic or overly wordy language. I've started reading books and put them down in part because they were over my head, and in part because I felt like they were trying to reach a limited audience simply by their highfalutin language. Me? My dream is to write a novel that is sold in airport bookstores. While much of what I write is also not going to appeal to the masses (bondage and spanking erotica, anyone?), the language itself is not trying to hide anything.

I don’t know what would have happened if I'd agreed to take part in the show, aside from having two months' worth of rent in my pocket and a cleaner home. Would I have gotten recognized on the street as "that girl with the messy apartment?" Would I have somehow placed myself out of another opportunity waiting in the wings? Would it have led to a memoir about being a (former) hoarder?

Soon after, I was approached by another show, this one a tattoo reality show. I had already decided to get a second tattoo sometime in November to celebrate my birthday, so I expressed interest. However, on this show, there not only isn't any payment, participants pay for their own tattoos, in effect coughing up cash for the chance to be on television and be inked by a famous, and presumably more expensive than average, tattoo artist. No thank you.

Don't get me wrong, reality TV producers of America: I'd love to be on TV, partly because I am, after all, an attention whore, and partly because I think that the very process of giving up control would be a major lesson for someone who's as much of a control freak as it's possible to be in this world. There are moments in my life when I can step back from being my typically vain, self-conscious self and think, That would be funny, like when I struggle to get on the subway with four gargantuan bags and have to either maneuver sideways to get my backpack in or slip some of them under the turnstile. Other moments are darker but no less dramatic, like looking up at a subway marquee and seeing the name of the one person I'm trying to get over, as if to remind me that they are forever and always ubiquitous and my efforts in moving on will always be futile.

I'm not above laughing at myself—at least, I don't think I am. Being on a reality show would be a great chance to find out if that's really true, or just one of the lies I tell myself, the persona I put on to face the girl in the mirror. I don't see that huge of a difference between opening my life up for cameras and the deliberate acts of self-disclosure about everything from my trouble having orgasms to my declaring bankruptcy to being a daughter of an alcoholic. To parse that seems like those who want to endlessly argue the difference between porn and erotica. I don't have issues with revealing my weaknesses and faults; I'm trying to get to a place where I don't have so much trouble celebrating my successes either and not think that's the path to instant overinflated hubris.

Lastly, and maybe my snobbery is showing here, but the fact is, if I were to go on a reality show and people were to judge me for what they saw on their screens to the exclusion of everything else about me, more pity them for not being able to acknowledge how not only media works, but how life works. We can never present every single aspect of ourselves to the world, even if we are on a 24-hour webcam. Humans are more complex than that. At least, I hope so.

To conclude: I’m ready for my closeup. You know where to find me.