The Monster

at the End of This Book

Oct 26, 2024

∙ Paid

by Jon Stone and Michael Smollin

“In early ’71, during Sesame Street’s second season, Jon Stone boarded a cross-country flight with a yellow legal pad and an anxious mind (he hated flying).

By the time the wheels kissed the tarmac in California he’d written The Monster at the End of This Book.”

Jon Stone, the first head writer for Sesame Street, and one of the show's directors and producers for 24 years, had created a masterpiece out of angst.

Anxiety into art.

The Monster at the End of This Book is often credited as one of the first meta books for children and it has inspired a generation of artists.

Including lovable, furry, old, me.

MOTHERHOOD

by The Monster at the End of This Book

Did I just call myself an artist??

UGHHHH

I am feeling so much shame about this “mom blog.” Yes, the one you’re currently reading.

PLEASE DON’T READ ON! THIS IS EMBARRASSING!

My recent intrusive thoughts about this blog in no particular order:

Are people rolling their eyes when they read this? Do I come across obnoxious? Am I obnoxious? Am I wasting my time? Will people think I’m mentally ill? Will people read this and not want to be my friend? Will they think I’m lame? Am I lame?

Why can’t I write in a straightforward, concrete, technical, and easily digestible way? Why is my writing so weird? Why am I so weird?

Who gives a shit what I think? I am not good at ANYTHING. I shouldn’t spend my time writing this. I’m a loser! I’m a failed artist. I’m a terrible writer.

PEOPLE CAN TELL I’M A TERRIBLE WRITER BECAUSE THEY ARE READING THIS!

STOP READING THIS!!!!

UGHHHH

You are right, I should be using this time to read to my kids, or workout, or support a friend, or my community, or lose weight, or exercise, or get a job writing. Yes.

…

THINGS I CAN WRITE:

Meta one-act plays, movies that are never made, TV pilots that are never made, short films based on the worst parts of my life, bad poems, journal entries about my feelings, chaotic rants aka monologues, long emotional text messages about my opinions and feelings that I sometimes stop myself from sending, and silly songs narrating mundane life for my kids.

I can also write unproductive emails.

Oh! and to-do lists that never end.

—

MY TO-DO LIST THIS WEEK:

My whole identity is being a mom. I’m not even good at being a mom.

No, wait, that was an intrusive thought. See? I can’t even write this!

TO DO LIST THIS WEEK:

get: a job.

make: a scarecrow (check), troll clips, a puppet theater, cheddar cheese-itz, collagen marshmallows, sense.

buy: lil’ warm boots for school, lil’ big girl bed, large ziplock bags, a house.

do: find voice note of mommom from 8 years ago since she said something important I can’t remember from before she lost her memory, put out candles for bath time, walk, apologize to all the moms I’ve shamed.

…

Recently, I read another mom writer’s thoughts on writing about motherhood on substack and while I really enjoyed the read I was overwhelmed with shame afterwards. So much so that I wanted to quit this mom blog.

Then I remembered no one is even asking me to write this mom blog and quitting felt so self-serious that I LOL’d at myself!

But then I thought —

Isn’t it wild how easily women can shame one another without even trying?

Did I shame you recently? Was it something I said? Or didn’t say? Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Did I shame you just by finding time to write this sentence? I understand. If I did shame you, I’m sorry.

Anyway, I read this other writer mom’s thoughts about how she feels shame about writing about being a mom and now I feel stupid about Library of Love aka LOL and about being a failed artist with no identity other than being a mom!

Is shame contagious?

I’m spiraling so bad I thought I poisoned my husband with chicken sausage I cooked and then boiled for over an hour.

…

Hey, before you jump for your phone to text me that I’m not a crappy writer or a flaming pile of garbage as an artist — I gotta tell you — you can’t help me with any of these bad feelings.

I wish you could and I really appreciate the thought but —

The praise and soothing I need isn’t external. It’s something that can only come from inside me. That’s Sesame Street 101, baby!