Update on Stuff and Things
Here's what's going on
Hey there, hi there, ho there. It’s me, your too-long absent host. This is not a true crime post but an update on some plans. And things.
In May, my wife and I will become homeowners for the first time ever. It’s hard to express how amazing this is. That the word “Peace” is part of the road name is only a tiny part of it all. It’s a great thing. It’s a modest, beautiful home with original woodworking from the Swedish carpenter whose family lived there for 70 years.
As anyone who has ever bought a home can imagine, that is occupying an inordinate amount of brain space and energy right now. I have recently begun a series of posts on another Substack of mine, too—one very different from this one and probably far too open, but frankly, it’s also therapeutic.
Let’s put it this way: I loved my late father dearly, and I feel, in the end, that he was a basically good but deeply flawed man. I’ve begun writing about him, my family, and my complicated relationship with my parents…and call it a memoir, call it autofiction (I cop to making up or surmising many things), whatever, it’s already some of the most real writing I’ve done. Start here:
As for True Crime Report (this site right here), I keep getting subscribers even with what I feel is a relatively small amount of content, and I feel a responsibility to all of you that I’m sure isn’t apparent. Many know I lost both my parents last year and that no matter your age—or your parents’ age at death—that’s a brutal blow to absorb, and my God, is it ever. I have only begun feeling something close to what I recognize as normal this month. I’m sure some of that is feeling buoyed by the prospect of a lovely home with a yard, garden, and all that other bucolic shit, but some of it is just having the good medication and time passing.
Conversely, I have also been absorbing more true crime than ever, and I plan to work out how to approach future subjects as I publish more here.
Look, I think true crime is broken as a genre. I hate it more than I like it. At any given time, there are at least three to four garbage true crime shows on Oxygen or ID that I could rage about all day.
The genre is far bigger and a far more deeply embedded part of the zeitgeist than ever before, though, and on some level, I think that’s a good thing. But in general, it’s long been consumed via glib, sensationalist outlets that, in the case of recent high-profile stories, hurt people who are already in pain far more than they help.
Too much that passes for true crime now is psychological brutality against the living victims. It is full of shallow nods at empathy followed by jokes that separate the writer or host from the subject. As a certified goofball, I’m the last person to insist everyone be serious. But plenty of grim jokes are to be made that don’t end up humiliating someone who already suffered the worst way imaginable, and too few want to call themselves podcasters, talking heads, whatever, and go for the easy crack, the shallow, obvious observation.
The consistently brilliant Emma Berquist describes my problem with true crime, what I do not want to do as a writer or podcaster, better than I have:
“Stay sexy don’t get murdered,” is the tagline of one of the most popular true crime podcasts, as if being murdered is a choice women make, or a risk that can be avoided if we’re just smart enough. Women aren’t stupid; we don’t walk down dark alleys alone while wearing stilettoes and lamenting loudly about how no one would miss us if we disappeared. We all take precautions, we lock our doors and let our friends know where we’re going. “Be aware of your surroundings and don’t trust strangers” is not particularly helpful advice for avoiding the one scenario in which women are most likely to actually be murdered: by their partner. It’s victim blaming dressed up in empowerment; no one questions someone killed in a car accident, but if a woman is murdered her story becomes a precaution.
In a paragraph that begins with her attacking the biggest power player in true crime podcasting with the pod’s signature quote, Emma nails so much of what I hate about the nature of true crime now.
As one lone middle-aged white man, I don’t know yet what I can do, but I will keep this up and try to do it right.
Thank you for subscribing and reading. Thank you most of all for your patience. More soon.
Congrats on the house, Steve. You’re the only “true crime” writer that I’ve consistently followed for this long, precisely because you have compassion and empathy for the individuals involved. Myself, as much as true crime pulls and fascinates, I’ve pulled away somewhat. Listen to sometimes silly and credulous paranormal shit (what am I? Neither a believer nor a skeptic. Weird shit happens, I dunno) because bizarre creatures living in the deep dark are rarely as terrifying as humans.
I’m here for whatever you want to share. You’re an empathetic, talented writer with a real gift for putting into writing the things we need to think about. Thanks. And I’m glad that the good ship Huff is righting a bit. We all lose our way sometimes in the storm.
But if I was personally connected to a crime, what would anger me the most about any true crime coverage would be rampant speculation or gross inaccuracies. So I’d probably read none of it unless I was the one providing some of the information. “If” is probably denial. And so is “probably.” Therapy is a wonderful thing.