Hello. Hi. Are you there?

We decided yesterday to start a Substack.

What are we doing here? We do not know. What is anyone doing starting a Substack?

Let’s take a step back. To coincide with the publication of our novel, The Memo, our publisher thought it would be a great idea if we placed a humor piece. We agreed, and decided to give it a go. 

After writing the column over the course of a few days, we were surprised to discover that there remain only two publications that are known for publishing humor pieces–The New Yorker’s Shouts & Murmurs column and the magazine McSweeney’s. Both require prospective contributors to submit on spec, then take 2-3 weeks to respond, if they respond at all. (Please note that nobody is doing this for the money: McSweeney’s pays contributors $40 per column, which would amount to about $0.02/hour, given the time we spent on our piece.) 

Friends who have been lucky (and funny!) enough to get published in both of these houses of hilarity read our piece, wished us luck and sent us their editors’ email addresses. They offered the caveat that responses take a long time and that they are more often than not rejections. So we guess we were lucky to have heard back at all. 

This was our first rejection email, from The New Yorker: 

Hi Lauren & Rachel,
There are some great details in this one, but I'm sorry to say I'm passing. Hope you send more my way soon.

This was our second rejection email, from McSweeney’s: 

Hi Rachel and Lauren -
Enjoyed checking this out, but we aren’t going to run it. Thanks for the look!

Not knowing what else to do, and in the absence of any actionable feedback, we submitted the piece to other editors we knew who worked at prestigious-yet-unfunny publications. They told us they thought our piece was hilarious but unfortunately there are only two places that publish these types of things. Maybe we should try submitting to The New Yorker or McSweeney’s? We thanked them for these suggestions. 

We are not trying to complain here. We wrote a book and the run up to its release (on June 18!) has been one of the best experiences of our lives. We are well aware that every publication gets tons of submissions, and they each have their own particular standards and tastes and yadda yadda yadda. At the same time, we didn’t want this little ditty we wrote–of which we are fond and proud and all that other stuff, BTW–to go to waste just because two editors didn’t think it was a fit. So here we are. 

We are starting a Substack that we envision will serve as a cornucopia of humorous writing–to be published at will, without having to wait for external validation from the two places that in all likelihood will continue to reject our submissions. We have a lot of funny friends who we are hoping will participate in this endeavor. So consider this an experiment. A community. A safe space. A man cave, but for women. 

Anyway, here’s our baby. We’ll let you be the judge. 

The Empath Regrets 
by Rachel Dodes and Lauren Mechling

“You may wonder: Is it possible to have too much empathy and lose touch with my common sense? Does being empathic make me vulnerable to taking on other’s pain? I don’t want that! The answer is yes, but only if you lack strategies to protect and center yourself.” 

—Dr. Judith Orloff, author of The Genius of Empathy (2024)  

Dear Tamar,

I have a confession to make: We didn’t meet at Emma Schultz’s poetry circle. You and I had actually already spoken to each other once, in the Cosgrove dining hall, at the Thursday night baked potato bar. And I will never forget your slick of berry lip gloss, the exact same shade that I favor, as you passed me the chive bowl. I have always been highly moved by beauty, and in that moment I knew that we would become best friends. This is perhaps a long way of explaining something that I have long suspected and recently discovered to be medical fact: according to my life coach Jeanine, I am an empath. 

Being an empath is a superpower, but it’s also a burden. Members of the empath community respond intensely to stimuli and take on others’ feelings as if they were our own. Surely you have observed this quality in me over the course of our friendship. Maybe you even noticed it at Emma’s New Year’s Eve party, when your then-boyfriend Eric showed up drunk with that bouffant-banged rockabilly girl and proceeded to spill red wine on our host’s cream colored sofa. You and I huddled together in the kitchen nook as they were escorted out of the apartment, and I took on your pain as if I were the Crate & Barrel fabric absorbing that cheap Cabernet. 

Out of that shared suffering, a friendship was forged. I was there for you when you broke up with Eric, and you were there for me when Josh broke up with me. I’ll never forget how you baked me a loaf of zucchini bread and gave me your dog-eared copy of Eat, Pray, Love. It was a touching gesture, but when I relayed this anecdote to Jeanine, she wondered if you really were holding space for my feelings. Unfortunately, empaths have a videographic recollection of events, which can resemble the “flashbacks” often associated with PTSD. And I’m fairly certain I had told you about the trip that Josh and I took to Sicily, particularly about the rice ball incident in Palermo. In light of that, aren’t there thousands of less triggering titles? 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the time you invited me on your family vacation to Barbados. We played Scrabble with your uncle Jerry, who won the game with his loose interpretation of the rules, and got away with a 36-point “Qi.” To help process my bewilderment at your uncle’s cultural appropriation, you suggested a walk on the beach, even though I’d already made clear how adverse I am to the feeling of sand in my toenails. 

Speaking of feet, remember the the day we were headed to see the Buddhist antiquity exhibition at the Met and I tripped on the steps and broke my big toe? I recall regaining consciousness in the ER and finding you there waiting with a bouquet of calla lilies. Calla lilies. Had I not already informed you that fragrant flowers overwhelm my senses? Gestures that might be considered displays of kindness to regular, unexceptional people–Jeanine calls them “apaths”–can actually feel like acts of violence to my kind. We have a bionic sense of smell. 

Another thing you must already know is that we empaths are deep and creative thinkers. You always supported my papier mache-textile practice, for which I will always be grateful. I was so delighted when you connected me with a partner at your law firm who wound up purchasing one of my salvaged-yarn bird nests. I’d assumed it was for her personal collection, though. Imagine my surprise when I had to confront my own work in a glass case by the conference rooms in your office! I hadn’t been planning on your midwiving an appurtenance of corporate greed.

Among the struggles that we empaths face is a heightened sense of intuition. I know it might sound nice, but our minds flood with notions that we don’t necessarily want to sit with. When the universe whispers in our ears, we have no choice but to listen–and share. It was in this spirit of generosity that I expressed to you my doubts about Simon. I always found his habit of keeping MSNBC on in the background, even when I was over, especially troubling. My empath support group often reminds me that I am not obligated to carry the weight of the world’s problems. 

Which brings us to your engagement party. No one can dispute it was a beautiful event. But cornering me at the afterparty to ask me to be a bridesmaid? I felt trapped and helpless while everybody else was in the throes of celebrating, in that windowless, atrociously lit karaoke room where Simon was belting out Total Eclipse of the Heart (a song, mind you, that was supposed to be sung by Meat Loaf, who lost his voice and had to forfeit this iconic American anthem to that Welsh one hit wonder whose name I will not mention). 

I think it’s safe to say that you know that when I am in crowds, I tend to slip into “people-pleasing” mode. And so I ignored my inner voice, and agreed to join your wedding party, despite the fact that you asked your bridal party few to wear yellow. Bright colors can be deeply distracting to empaths. 

I recognize that until now, I’ve been a pretty chill, “go with the flow” type of friend, so you might be surprised by some of the revelations contained herein. But please understand that I am simply attempting to pair radical empathy with radical honesty. This is an elaborate, but hopefully illuminating, way of explaining that I will be unable–not to mention unwilling–to attend your wedding. As Jeanine says, I must protect and center myself. 

In the spirit of openness, my letter to you is an “open letter,” the first installment of my pro-empath Substack. And Tamar, I accept you for who you are. You are completely forgiven.

With empathy,
Sophie

P.S. I ask anybody reading this post to please consider subscribing. I also recommend the work of my Substack sisters in empathy awareness, notably Cup of Empathy, So Many Feelings, and Big Empath Energy.

Aaaand, we’re back. That was the piece. If you thought it was funny, please order our book. If you didn’t think it was funny, you can still order our book and give it to someone you hate.