Confessions of a Funemployed Writer

A tale of contrition, confusion, and earnest content creation.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been [*checks calendar*] thirty-eight years since my last confession.”

I lied to you guys.

Before I tell you how and why, I have two quick stories I want to share from my childhood.

I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through high school. In first grade, we received the sacrament of Holy Communion, and in second grade, it was First Confession. The nuns had prepped us for what the latter would look like (“You’ll go into the confessional and tell Father Sean all the awful things you’ve done—he’ll be behind a screen so it won’t even be all that embarrassing—and then he’ll tell you what prayers to say for your penance.”) so I was only modestly nervous. Plus I’d gotten a shiny new cross necklace for the occasion, because nothing says our God is a loving, forgiving God like a 10-karat gold-plated accessory from JCPenney.

A few notes about this photo: 1. This is actually from my Holy Communion, but I’m pretty sure I wore the same dress (*which BOTH of my daughters wore to elementary school the year they reenacted the EIGHTEEN HUNDREDS, but I digress). 2. You’ll note that this is a POLAROID, so ostensibly the photographer (surely my mom) knew about fifteen seconds later that my eyes were in fact closed, but film was expensive, okay? We MADE DO in those days. We were commemorating an occasion, not compiling headshots for our portfolios. 3. How cute is my dad (in the same “sport coat”—his one and only—he would later wear to my high school graduation)? 4. The first time my daughters saw this photo, one of them said, “Mom! I didn’t know you used to dye your hair brown when you were little!” Hahahahaha. :)

We lined up in the back of the church and one by one, entered the tiny confessional when the last person came out. When my turn came, I had my sins all queued up and ready to go.

Me: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first Confession.”

Father Sean: [silence]

Me [to self]: Okey-doke. I guess I just spill it then.

Me [to the screen]: “I was mean to my sister, I lied about eating a snack before dinner, and I talked back to my mom.”

Narrator: Those would be her go-to confessions for the next eleven years.

Father Sean: [silence]

Me [to self]: Didn’t the nuns say he was supposed to say something back? Did I do it wrong? Were my sins so bad that I shocked or angered him into silence? WHAT WERE MY CLASSMATES CONFESSING?

Me [to the screen, grasping here]: “So, yeah, like, I’m really sorry and everything.”

Father Sean: [silence]

Me [to the screen]: “I guess I’ll just go say a bunch of prayers?”

Father Sean: [silence]

Me [to self, leaving confessional in confused shame]: This cannot be good.

LITERALLY ALL OF MY FRIENDS BACK IN THE PEW: “Well, what’d ya get? Two Our Fathers and a Hail Mary? No way, I got FOUR Our Fathers, two Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be to the Father!”

Me [to self]: I’m definitely going to hell.

I’m honestly not sure if it would be days or years before I realized that there were confessionals on either side of Father Sean, and that he’d merely been listening to some other kid’s transgressions while I was spewing mine to a wall. Either way, the wait-your-turn part might have been good information for a seven-year-old reconciliation rookie to have in advance.

The other story isn’t so much a story as evidence that I can overthink things in two languages.

In that same Catholic school, mass was still sometimes spoken in Latin (to this day I can recite the Pater Noster and Ave Maria flawlessly *I’m really fun after a few margaritas*). I’d somehow gotten it stuck in my mildly-OCD head that the sign of the cross was essentially like hitting the speakerphone button on a phone. Also, it was more official if you said it extra reverently in Latin.

In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, Amen meant “Hey God, I’m about to talk to you about some really important, Godly things and when I’m done, I’ll ‘hang up’ with a nice In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, Amen, so you’ll know you can stop listening.”

My Roomba took this video of me.

I was genuinely concerned about God having to juggle billions of prayers at once—while also sifting them out from the rest of the world’s mental chatter. I figured the LEAST I could do was give him that little heads up when I wanted his attention.

One day I had a paralyzing thought: What if I had forgotten to hang up just one time? That would mean my every sinful thought was going directly to the Almighty, and then when I *thought* I was ringing him up to express my gratitude (and probably ask for a baby sister or a kitten or a Sony Walkman, let’s be honest), I was actually, accidentally hanging up and God wasn’t hearing a word of it.

I worried about that a lot. It probably made me a better person, frankly, on account of the fact that I was constantly terrified I had mentally butt-dialed our Lord and Savior.

All of that is just to say I am not in the habit of lying.

Anyway, back when I started this stack, I declared that my intention was to keep it free for everyone, always. I wanted (and still want!) my words to reach as many people as possible. Originally, I was posting maybe a stack a week. Eventually it was a solid, predictable two, and for more than a year, it was thrice-a-week. For the last several months—even before my funemployment kicked in—I have consistently posted five days a week.

Here’s the thing: even when it was a lowly one or two, people pledged their money to support me, despite the fact that they weren’t getting anything special or different than the folks who hadn’t forked over a single skinny nickel.

That fact will never not blow my mind.

(It’s my stack. I’m allowed to say never-not.)

Now that I’m officially funemployed, I basically have two choices: turn this substack into a viable source of income, or go out and get a real job.

I’m praying I can make #1 work.

In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, Amen.

So here’s my plan: Starting next week, I am going to put one post a week behind a paywall—yes, in the hope that FOMO will nudge more people to support me. Just one. I figure nonpaying subscribers can’t really complain about getting eighty percent of what I put out for free, and I *do* like the idea of paid subs being rewarded with some bonus material. (Although admittedly, the comments section won’t be as fun.) Also, I promise I won’t bury the paywall mid-stack; it’ll be right up front so hopefully you’ll never feel bait-and-switched.

I never wanted to do this—and I still don’t. I’m just going Gestalt on myself and giving myself the advice I’d give my own daughter: “You work hard. It’s okay to ask for support when you need it. Your efforts are valuable. The people who judge don’t matter and the people who matter won’t judge. You’re not for everyone—and that’s okay.”

You’re welcome to tell me—honestly—how you feel about this in the comments. And if you have any other/better suggestions, I’m all ears.

P.S. A quick reminder that annual subscribers get a free signed book (don’t forget to email me at jenna(at)jennamccarthy(dot)com with your mailing address and who you’d like it personalized to) and all subs get the opportunity to be featured in my Subscriber Spotlight. Also if you’re one of the generous patrons who’ve mailed me a check in lieu of paying through the platform, pretty-please email me a reminder so I can mark you as a full-access subscriber. Again, a million actual thanks for your support. XOXO

P.P.S. Yesterday, I asked for resources and prayers for one of my beloved subscribers. Your kindness and generosity, once again, brought me to my literal knees. I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve the followers I have, but I pray I never stop doing it. In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, Amen.

My oldest daughter (circa 2009) ready to reenact pioneer life in my vintage church dress *yes I save everything.