“It’s almost like you didn’t know the book wasn’t finished yet.”
Intro I: "Community." What a funny way to describe it.
Welcome to my book, Unsolicited Advice: A Consent Educator's (Canceled) Memoir, only on Substack. Thanks for being here.
I’ve put off writing this new introduction for months. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to write it while bitter, that I didn’t want to write it until I was certain I had my rights back, but the truth is that I just didn’t want to write it. I’ve debated how much to share of what happened—how much I feel comfortable sharing, how much feels appropriate to share from other people’s stories without violating privacy, how much I need to share in order not to be hiding or obscuring anything, and ultimately, how much I feel strangers deserve to know about the inner workings of my private life. I’ve sat looking at this blank document time and time again asking myself, “Are you ready to do this?” The answer has been no and no again until I finally secured my rights last week, announced this book’s launch on Substack, and gave myself a deadline. I’m pushing through immense fear and anxiety, concerned how this book will be received, what possible consequences and repercussions there might be, and if I’m painting a target on my back by talking about this experience. I’m usually overflowing as a writer but with this it’s been slow and painstaking, like pulling teeth in a room of molasses. I feel compelled to hide under the table like a cockroach, afraid of how brittle my skin might be if anyone gets too close.
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The email’s subject line read, “Cancelation: Unsolicited Advice.” I had predicted it from the moment I received the email from my editor in September of 2022 asking if I was interested in writing a book. My prophecy has always been strong, but this one I wrote off again and again as fear, paranoia, neuroses. A way to keep myself small. Avoid my purpose.
This was June, 2024. A few days later, my 36 year old cousin died of an inoperable, rapidly growing brain tumor. I was now contemplating various forms of mortality: the death of a loved one, the death of a project, the death of my career, my own death. I still wake up with crushing fear like an elephant on my chest, afraid of a lurking demon in any physical or virtual shadow, come to take me away.
Photo by Summer Wagner
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In the days after the cancelation friends called me to check in, took me on walks, bought me lunch. My partner checked on me and stayed firmly in my corner. As I tried to bypass my grief by problem solving and strategizing, those closest to me let me vent and word vomit.
Most immediately I felt disgusting. I knew who was responsible for the cancelation. I knew who the information had come from because of the particular things that were said—rumors only one person espouses. Whether she sent the email or someone sent it on her behalf, I don’t know. I wrote to my partner, “I want to be choked and gagged and hung out to dry.” I felt like, if I’m as disgusting and horrible as they say I am, let it be visible. Prove it. Cover me in dirt and leave me to die. He replied, “That can be arranged.”
After receiving the email, my editor spoke to someone who’d overseen my work as an intimacy coordinator on a project five years ago—the worst work experience of my life, to date. I nearly quit the field entirely due to the horrendous work environment on this show, and yet my removal from that show was cited in the email to my editor as a reason why I shouldn’t publish a book. This person told my editor I was “in bad standing in the intimacy coordinator community.”
Community. What a funny way to describe it.
Upon receiving word that the book was to be canceled I reached out to people I’ve worked with, asking them to write to my editor on my behalf. I figured if the editor and publishing house took one email disparaging me seriously, maybe they’d take 30 testimonials from people who’ve actually worked with me seriously. I was wrong. One by one, each person who wrote an email, myself included, got locked out of our Gmail accounts for “spam.” It took a couple days of people telling me they’d gotten locked out for me to piece together what was going on. The up side was that I got to see some of the emails written by colleagues I deeply respect. Many very successful, busy people took time out of a work day to stop what they were doing and write to my editor singing my praises.
A couple days after the cancelation but before my cousin’s death, I had the idea to publish the book on Substack. Having a plan of action gave me a brief respite from the pain. But I began to worry that this person—or the people she’d gotten to—could be around any corner, could be emailing anyone associated with me, could take to the internet to tear me down publicly. When I didn’t hear back from a colleague via email, I wondered if they’d been contacted; when a gig fell through for totally normal reasons, I worried they’d heard something about me. I wondered who I needed to warn, what kind of damage control I could or should do. I considered legal action. I felt helpless, hopeless. I fantasized about anonymity and entertained the idea of moving to some remote place, never to be recognized.
Then my book agent dropped me. A few days later, I told my speaking agent what happened and he replied, “I’m so sorry this is happening to you. But you are in a club of about half my client roster.” It seemed from his response that when you work primarily with activists, thought leaders, and change makers, you know that this is par for the course. He told me he gets emails like the one my editor received about various clients frequently. I left this conversation feeling like he’d set a new bar: this was the barrier to entry into my inner circle, onto my team. I need to be working with people who stand behind me and what I’m doing, who understand the enormous risks involved, and who have the spine to withstand it alongside me.
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Hi, I’m Mia. I found consent through Intimacy Coordination and fell in love with it so much that I decided to dedicate my life to making it as widely available as possible.
You can book me to speak at your company, organization, or university by contacting sean@collectivespeakers.com.
I offer classes on consent and creativity, people pleasing, the romantic comedy, as well as trainings for people who want to learn to teach consent. You can read more and sign up at consentwizardry.com.
Follow me on IG @consent.wizardry.