Greta (my baby, but now 23) just released her first album.

The title is “Baby Fat,” and it’s fantastic.

I hope you will check it out on Spotify.

So far, my favorite songs are “We Both Know,” “Sunshine,” and “Just My Luck!”

But this one brought me such delight.

So we noticed a small nest on a high shelf, right by our front door.

And day after day, we waited.

No activity.

So we started to think it was empty.

Deserted.

Yesterday was Day 2,190.

Six years, to be exact.

Yet somehow, hotels still put me to the test.

They don’t come at you all at once. They poke you. They prod.

First comes the lobby.
Warm smile.
Small talk.

{—And I’m sorry if that’s not progressive enough for you, but it was 1993, and I was hell-bent on NOT ending up as a spinster.}

You see, I never wanted to be a lawyer.
My dad was a lawyer.
He hated it.
I wanted to be a high-school teacher.
Like my mom.

I got straight A’s.
I followed all the rules.
And I never got into any trouble.

“The last of the sweet and innocent,”
the high-school yearbook dubbed me.

That was in 7th grade, but by 9th, my goody two shoes fell out of vogue.

My best friends started resenting me.

Greta.

23.

Just released her first single on Spotify.

“Baby Fat”

I have chills.

I’ve listened to 1,000 times on repeat,

My heart races.
My stomach sinks.
My breath hastens, and SNAP:

I suddenly become drenched, head to toe.

My genes are 99% Irish, too.

So a surge of adrenaline makes the the blood pump up into my face and turn me into the most conspicuously nervous-looking red tomato 🍅.

I hadn’t worked a “real job” in 5 years;
I’d let my lawyering skills lapse;
I’d let my people skills lapse;
I’d let my self-worth lapse;
I’d become a nobody.

But the worst part was having no community.

—To me, it meant awkward alumni dinners, bar ass’n meetings, and cocktail mixers with lawyers 20–40 years older than me.

—I spent events like those wearing a plastic smile, laughing at jokes I didn’t understand, and feeling like a complete idiot.

It’s called “Fagan of Hoboken & the Horseshoe,” and it tells the wild—and true—story of our great‑grandfather, Lawrence Fagan (1851-1921).

🔹 Born in Dublin, Fagan came as a child to a Lower Manhattan tenement where he attended NYC public schools, and by the late 1800s, he’d settled in Hoboken, NJ, where he worked as a blacksmith’s apprentice on the Hudson waterfront, gradually working his way to become a successful iron manufacturer and an active Democrat.

1️⃣ MISTAKE 1:
You post with a FIREWALL. 👺

You post an article you’ve written,
but you give us no info about it.
And the full article’s behind a firewall. ❌

So we can’t read it, so we don’t like it or comment on it, and we definitely don’t save it. We just scroll on.

So I’ve written him this ditty—a show of loving support.
May this rhyme bring him luck, for his big day in court.

He’s got not one case to argue, but back-to-back: TWO.
And that is a feat that he’s long yearned to do.

A big part of my inspiration all along has been Justin Welsh.

He was the first person whose posts I looked forward to every morning on LinkedIn back in 2021.

I owe ALL of my happy news to YOUR consistent support, and I am so, so grateful. 🙏🏻

My dream is to make Dear 1L the book that EVERY law student reads:

▪️ I reached 1,450 books for the year—a HUGE jump of 47 copies since 6 days ago, when I posted an offer to send a free book to 3 incoming 1Ls.

At first, I was embarrassed when only two incoming 1Ls took me up on my free book offer.