Blog — Molly Moynahan

Being and Nothingness: Social Media and Me

I am very, very conflicted about social media. The irony of writing this on a social media platform is not lost on me any more than that disgusting fuck saying he totally understands all sports and then admitting he has no idea what a red card is. I liked Facebook. I wrote stuff, funny or moving stuff, and people said they liked what I wrote. I never noticed who liked anything, and if no one liked it, I didn’t care. Occasionally I attended a party, and someone would tell me something they had no business knowing, and when I asked them how, they would say, Facebook. That was a little weird, but hey, it saved time because people didn’t need to be filled in on details about my cat or son or parents or constant whining about day-to-day stuff. My husband posting unflattering pictures of me with a cheese hat or coming out of the water in a bathing suit or making weird faces was annoying but nothing I couldn’t handle by looking at some old headshots and remembering I was once quite the looker.

Molly MoynahanJuly 6, 2026

Sartre Was Right: “Hell Is Other People”

“Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” —Virginia Woolf

Recently, I have had two weird experiences when attending writers' groups. One was definitely for anyone who writes, whether songs, limericks, stories, or poetry; the other was a group of supposed “published” writers. I attended the first one reluctantly, invited by a neighbor who mistook my identity as a “writer” for someone who wants to write, who writes as a hobby or as a long-postponed dream of a future. This group started with the leader's arrival, who unpacked several bottles of wine and led a sort of insider exchange of information about bears and snow (we are in northern Michigan). Soon, a member displayed agitation of a sort I associate with homeless people yelling at strangers, made worse by his consumption of alcohol. While I was reading a story and was greeted with a small amount of praise, I sensed this was not the purpose of this gathering. I recognized my approach to my work, the work of a writer, was not going to be appreciated by the others who spoke of the “torture” of creating. It started to feel like a hostile support group with the agitated member focusing on me and demanding an answer to the question, "Why do you write?" After remaining to show my support for another reader, I fled.