About
Emma Newman-Holden is a twenty-three-year-old writer who specializes in fiction about gross women and weird sex. She lives in a beautiful land called New Jersey. Her father is from England and her mother is from New Orleans but this does not necessarily make her an alcoholic. She wrote a book and uploads fiction on Substack weekly, the former of which you should probably buy and the latter of which you should probably subscribe to.
The Events in Order of Loving Someone
Lily, a receptionist and unpublished writer, leads a life plagued by ennui—that is until she is accepted into an exclusive celebrity dating app. There she finds another non-celebrity, business mogul and London resident Andrew, whom she flies across the globe for. Andrew, an older suitor, takes twenty-three-year-old Lily into his upscale social circles, showing her the absurd and hedonistic culture of affluence, and in doing so, gives her the unwanted appearance of an escort. The relationship forces Lily to face questions about her creativity, her dignity, and most importantly, her infatuation with a man she hardly knows.
The Events in Order of Loving Someone dissects the messy politics of self-harm and social media, the calculated nature of casual sex, and the impossible balancing act of limerence and sanity. Destiny is revealed to be equal parts truth and fiction, and love is found to be only as strong as a woman’s willingness to escape.
This is Emma Newman-Holden’s debut novel.
Top Substack Short Fiction
What's In Your Eye Dear
Pig in tights lmaooo. Fat cunt
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Jesus, fugly old troll of a woman
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I can’t stop watching Omg. It’s like a fucking car crash. Maybe worse
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These comments never get to me, not really, because the fact is: everyone is ugly. I’m just allowing the floodgates of criticism to be open—most don’t do this. Or if they do, they deal with it in such dramatic, unnecessary ways, as if it’s even something to be dealt with. I wasn’t going to cut up my body like my friend Martha or abuse prescription pills like my friend Martha or sleep with narcissistic men with abnormally small penises like my friend Martha. Upon further thought, I should probably check up on Martha, see how that dumb bitch is doing. But, no. No games, no tricks, not for me. I am brave enough, old enough, wise enough to know that none of these things would help. They wouldn’t necessarily “hurt” either—they were zero net value, so, why bother? It’s hard to keep up with the comments while I’m performing anyway.
All I Got Was This Poor Gag Reflex
My son died. My son died and the grocery store clerk doesn't say sorry. She didn’t know him nor know of him, but that’s no excuse. She smiles as I hand her the cash, making fun of me. She smiles because to her a world without my son is not only a joke but a respite. I buy orange juice paper towels and tins of sardines. She’s smiling because there is no apple sauce, no Cheez-Its. She’s smiling because my grocery list is severed just like the rest of me. She’s smiling because I’m not and because one of us has to smile or else the world will fail to exist. I suppose it’s a kindness. I suppose it’s a necessity. I suppose a stranger is not a symbol of latent malevolence. I try to smile back but all I can produce is a belch-infused cough. She frowns.
Work Of Art
I’ve been a woman since I was ten years old. That’s when I got my period and that’s when my dad’s friends started getting handsy and that was when I realized I was beautiful. I’m a knockout—I simply am. I put the facade of insecurity on growing up, because you have to or else people won’t be your friend, but I got rid of that habit. I’ve made men slit their wrists and go thousands of dollars into debt because of my looks. My skin is like rubber: clean, shiny, easily bendable. My breasts are medium-sized, perky—the perfect handful. My ass is large from all the glute workouts, but large in a chic way, not a fat way. My face is like a Malcolm Liepke painting: bustling with fresh color. Blue eyes, black hair, red lips. I’m really a work of art. I’m only trying to make this clear to Jacob because I know the effect I have on mentally retarded cousins and drunk uncles. And he should know too.
Contact
Get in touch with Emma Newman-Holden for collaborations, interviews, or inquiries.
Or email myvapeisdying@gmail.com
