What if...I am cringe but not yet free?

On Ed Sheeran and the self-inflicted tyranny of trying

Hello!

Greetings from the final day of my writing residency. I’ve spent the last two weeks at St. Nells doing nothing but editing my rom-com manuscript and eating SpongeBob mac & cheese. Or at least that’s how the first ten days went. 

On day twelve, Emily suggested we watch Ed Sheeran: The Sum of It All, a four-part Disney+ miniseries, clearly as a bit. I should have known better. Because there is no worse recipe for me than cutting myself off from writing because I need to rest and then watching something asinine “as a joke.” Unfortunately, one cannot control what (or who) summons the muse.

So here’s 1000 words on Ed Sheeran.

At first, I was ready to go long on what The Sum of It All says about the brain-breaking power of fame—how Ed Sheeran meticulously self-edits to remain “the wholesome good guy,” and pushes some of that same self-editing on his wife, Cherry.

But I’m more interested in something beyond the classic yet deeply cheugy look at fame. Here are some things I learned after spending 130 minutes with Ed:

Ed can only express humor while wearing a wig on New Years Eve. (The “humor” in question is “dancing.”)

Ed became an adult six hours ago and carries zero shame about this fact.

Ed wears his own tour merch while performing.

Ed has an upper body fully covered in youth pastor x Lisa Frank tattoos and substitutes this for a personality.

Ed’s world-building and mythology-making consist mostly of “math.”

I could gleefully continue dunking on this milquetoast man. But Ed doesn’t make me feel deeply unsettled because he’s one of those tie-dyed bagels as a person. At the heart of my bitterness is fear—fear that I am the Ed in my loved ones’ lives. And if I’m not already, it’s only a matter of time.

On Wednesday, I began querying that aforementioned rom-com novel. If you’re someone who is free from the curse of wanting to pursue traditional publishing, here’s a quick aside to how the process works:

1. You write the full manuscript.

2. You revise it to be as perfect as humanly possible.

3. You research agents who might be interested based on their “manuscript wish lists” and then query the ones who are currently accepting pitches, following each agent’s individual rules and requests.

4. You wait for weeks to months to receive either: a. no response, b. a form rejection, or c. a request for the full manuscript.

5. If c., you wait additional weeks to months to receive either a rejection or an offer of representation.

6. If you get an offer of rep, you sign and then do rounds of revisions with your new agent.

7. The agent does their own version of steps 3-5 in an attempt to sell your book to an editor at a publishing house (this is the book deal part).

8. Tons more revisions with the editor/pub house.

9. More time passes.

10. Book is released!

It’s like playing a slot machine except each quarter is something you’ve spent months making by hand and you’ll probably have to play at least half a dozen times before you get any response at all. This is the first time in my life that I’ve earnestly thanked the universe for gifting me an addictive personality and a productivity brain goblin who is only satisfied when I work at an obsessive and intense pace on personal projects of limited monetary value.

You know who else has this affliction? Edward Christopher Sheeran.

In between showing us his terrible taste in visual art, all Ed Sheeran does is work at an obsessive and intense pace. Devastating things happen and he carries on. His wife is diagnosed with cancer and he retreats to his songwriting cave for days. His friend passes away and he continues playing shows. His wife expresses repeated concern that his mental health is in the shitter due to his refusal to pause and process—as he films twelve music videos in a row without rest. 

It’s hard to watch, to sit with the cognitive dissonance of joking that someone is at best a shitty partner/dad and at worst perhaps a narcissist when that person shares your creative bad habits. Ed is a Rorschach test, and my results are “same.” I refuse to get a tattoo each time I play Madison Square Garden, though. The line must be drawn somewhere. 

The more I unpack this, the muckier it gets. But what I struggle with most is Ed’s self-seriousness about it all. The man has next-to-zero charisma and even less self-awareness or humor about the absurdity of being a person making art on such a grand scale. I fear this energy even more than I fear being a bad partner/friend—or maybe it’s a chicken-or-the-egg scenario, the logic being that if I soften my intensity with self-deprecation, I will be easier to live with, the anti-Ed. Yes, I’ve written a book, but my attitude about the whole thing so far has been cavalier. Outwardly I am very “tee hee, no worries if not.” 

Ed has big worries if not. If I’m truly honest with myself, I do too. 

In the words of one of the greatest poets of our time, “Everything is embarrassing.” Trying to make your art at its highest degree while you’re yet to reach some external milestone of success is inherently cringe. What no one tells you is that there is a vast chasm between accepting “cringe” and obtaining “free.”

In the meantime, I guess I have no other option but to start plotting my “What if Emily Henry’s Funny Story were also John Tucker Must Die with the same sexual energy as Bound?” book two. 

This newsletter brought to you by:

• My fellow residents Emily Menez and Bryn Durgin who kept me sane and laughing for the last two weeks. Plus Emily Flake for being so generous with her space and time. I am forever changed in the best possible way!

• Sawhorse Cafe for having the best cold brew in Williamsport, PA.

• The angel who fulfilled my Wegman’s custom cake order. <3