Not Another Fashion Critic

An open letter

Hello! It’s me, and I need new headshots.

My job is not to be a critic. It isn’t something I set out for. The people who already do it do it very, very well.

In fact, what you’re reading in this newsletter is always a bit of a comeback story.

People are often surprised that I have only lived in New York a year and a half, and that I have only been writing this newsletter for three years. By every standard, that makes me very new to this industry.

When I lived in Atlanta, I had a lifestyle beat that was focused more on home and dining. I was a big fish in a small pond. I had a popular blog — by Southern standards. I wrote for all the big (Southern) outlets: Southern Living, Eater, Garden & Gun, The Bitter Southerner, etc. And I contributed nationally to outlets like Town & Country when they wanted stories on things like The Kentucky Derby or Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. I had a style column in Atlanta magazine, and I wrote another column for Southern Living called “Girl Walks into a Bar”.

Fashion crept in when it could, but Atlanta isn’t a fashion town the way New York is. When it had a menswear moment in the early 2010’s (primarily driven by the national attention Sid Mashburn and Billy Reid garnered at the time), I found myself contributing to Four-Pins and GQ.

But my favorite beat was restaurants. Even then, I was always careful not to label myself a critic. This was when we had Bill Addison at Atlanta Magazine, great critics like John Kessler at the AJC, and a nationwide eye on Southern culture, heritage, and drinking.

And then, everyone left. Mr. Addison went to Eater, Kessler moved on with his life, and suddenly there was a dearth of critique. Somehow, it made dining out less fun. Something about restaurant culture lost its edge, its push. It was a ripple the regional industry felt for years, and when I moved away in 2022, the helm had yet to be firmly taken.

It made me see how much an industry needs criticism. These people set the tone of the industry. They ignite chatter. The creatives generating work feel validated or crestfallen by their praise. A creative industry is nothing without challenge and discomfort, because it pushes you to be better and births the next great idea.

When I landed in New York, I was hungry. But I also knew that I was starting over from almost zero in a brand new city, in a brand new industry. So I didn’t expect to be given the same opportunities, privileges or recognition as people who have worked in fashion for decades. I knew that I was leaving a city where I could get a table at any restaurant for one where nobody gave a shit who I was.

Even now, when I feel a little pang of envy that someone else has been given an opportunity I wanted, or when someone pans my writing, dismisses my point of view as vapid, or excludes me, I remind myself to take it on the chin. Because it’s all criticism. And I should listen.

But I am not always a perfect listener. I won’t feign that I have no ego, even though I try to be gracious. I certainly have my salty moments, like when a magazine editor dismissively said “Oh, cute”, to me when I told her I write a newsletter for a living. I won’t lie, there was a voice in my head that said “Okay, let’s see who drives more web traffic. Let’s compare bank accounts. Or maybe let’s see who actually sells things for their advertisers! Then we can decide who’s ‘cute’.”

When you don’t have a legacy publication behind your name anymore, when it’s only your name on the proverbial door, your sole words and thoughts and resources, little passive-aggressive jabs like that cut like a hot butter knife. Every achievement feels more palpable and every failure tremendous. Exclusion feels intentional even when it isn’t.

I’m no doe-eyed twenty-something; I’ve done the high-ranking corporate hierarchy, I’ve run a company, sold a company. I was an OG blogger, I’ve endured the middling publishing jobs, the humiliating internships, the mean-girl comment sections and the no-pay bylines. The Love List began as a blog in 2008! Truly, I’ve paid a lot of debts already. I do give myself credit for what I have accomplished with (now-revived newsletter) The Love List in just three-ish years. But it would have never happened without being built on the back of many years’ hard-won experience.

And while it may not look that way on social media sometimes, I am dazzled by the way moving to New York has rewarded me. In my mid-30’s, to hit reset for no other reason than liking a challenge, is something I am proud of.

I could have sat complacently in my little Atlanta bubble forever, being some kind of self-anointed queen of the South, writing about bourbon and oysters and The Kentucky Derby and the best places to shop in Charleston until I went blue in the face.

But I didn’t. Instead, I had some kind of delusional bravery blackout and woke up in Gramercy Park. Even more radically, I am succeeding.

So I’m not seasoned enough to be a fashion critic. And even if I were, I don’t think that’s my strength. So I don’t want you to think that’s what you’re getting here. This newsletter is written for the kind of women I seek out as friends. It’s meant to be a service — to filter through a crap-laden market and surface “the good stuff.” And maybe my definition of “good” is quite niche, but I like it that way. That’s the privilege of building your your own house online: you can decorate to your taste.

The Love List does a huge business by not trying to be everything to everyone. I always say I don’t want all the people, I want all the right people. We’ve successfully captured a luxury customer in a time when luxury is suffering. And I do it almost entirely without it being dependent on my picture or outfits, because like many Founders, I intend to sell this thing one day.

So yes, I do get a little salty when someone says an event is for “traditional media only” or I have to fight for a third-row seat. Because it’s more personal for me than someone who works for a big publishing brand. (Especially when I know that this newsletter will sway the sales and bottom line for a brand far more than most magazines ever could!!) So I let myself have that moment. But I always bounce back, because the success far outweighs the pitfalls. Instead, I put my energy back into the people who believe in me: that mostly means you, dear reader.

A lot of our new year content got pushed because of the insanity of January’s world events. But this is a letter I wanted to send out regardless of resolution season being past due. I am getting more and more questions every day about starting a Substack, about growing, about how to succeed. People feel like they need intricate editorial calendars, teams and resources and a lot of “stuff” before they begin.

If you want to do something, you should just start. You don’t need a business plan, a perfectly articulated brand identity, or even really any money. What you do need is a clear voice, a point of view, and the dedication to see things through, even when things get hard (and they will).

This business makes more money than I ever thought I’d see, with zero overhead and one employee. I have complete freedom over my calendar. Our mailing list contains some of the most powerful and famous names in the world. I think I’ve done something here. And women aren’t really supposed to say that kind of thing, are we? I don’t really care, because whatever is happening, it’s working, and it’s working because I believed in myself when nobody else did.

This is working. That deserves to be said aloud. It’s partially why I’m so hell-bent on amplifying independent designers on The Love List: I am always rooting for the underdog, because on some level, I consider myself one.

More importantly, I hope it makes somebody reading this begin. Just begin! Start the thing! Hit publish! Who cares if it sucks? You’ll get better. Not to be incredibly trite, but if I can do it, you genuinely can too.

I still have a lot of work to do. I am no great voice of my generation. The climb is far from over. But we’re one of the biggest fashion newsletters out there today, and I am only getting started. So if you’re stuck, I hope tonight’s send encourages you — because this all began with one thirtysomething girl at her kitchen table in Atlanta, sick of her job, deciding to change her life.

xo, Jess