Introducing “Letters to Lucy,” more honesty, and less control

There's a new sheriff in town this summer... me! We're going to do things a little differently, dammit

After a long winter, it’s almost summer, and I’ve decided to change the rules. I mean, I’m the sheriff around here, right?! You can continue to expect Q&As with [B]old Women, as well as [b]old discussion posts, but I’m going to try some new things.

First, I’m going to write in a more informal style, at least for these summer months, because… why not. I’ve discovered a sense of freedom in writing Notes on Substack where I often disregard proper punctuation, use swear words when it feels right, and sometimes post on [b]old age-adjacent topics, like the stack of books I’m reading. I want to bring some of that [b]oldness, and informality, over to this newsletter.

Second, and in line with the above, I am going to publish some shorter, looser, more raw essays; you might remember I gave myself radical permission to do this a while back.

Third, I’m starting a new essay series I’m calling Letters to Lucy.

Lucy is my childhood friend who died this winter, unexpectedly, in her early 70s. She was that rare person who is utterly authentic, utterly honest, direct to the point of being rude—and yet you accepted and believed her no matter what. She was so warm and embracing (she was literally a hugger), and the best way I know to honor her memory, is to be more honest, to be less afraid.

So here goes, my first Letter to Lucy…

As always, there are Questions for readers at the end. I hope you’ll join in for the conversation.

P.S. This post will be open to all readers for one week. After that, it goes into my Personal Essays for paid subscribers. I deliberately keep my annual fee as low as possible; if you absolutely cannot afford to pay, email me at debbieweil@substack.com and I will comp you.

Looking forward to new possibilities this summer.

Dear Lucy,

I’m turning 75 this year and I’m excited about it but dang how I wish you were getting to this milestone with me. I know, I know. I can hear you laugh, what’s the big deal? It’s something about the roundness of the number, something about a resounding entry into old age, that just feels good. Still, I look at my hands and am startled to see that they look as gnarled as my mother’s did when she was 90.