Excerpt from Ecstasy by Ivy Pochoda, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Before

The young ones call me Mama Ghost because I've been at this so long.

I am a specter. A vampire. A night-creature.

You think I don't eat. You imagine I don't sleep.

I can see in the dark. I can hear what goes unsaid. I can hear your heart beat harder, faster than the DJ's dubstep, speed garage, trance buildups, jungle beats.

I've been there from the beginning-when the music was underground, when it was heavy, dark, and full of tribal calling. I was there for the first mainstream sounds, the candy and the kandi kids, the Technicolor dancers trading sticky necklaces and bug-eyed kisses on the dance floor. I'm there now, on the festival circuit, the commercial parties, the destination events. The three days of high-priced escape and brand-name DJs.

I'm there at bars. At after hours. At after-after hours.

I'm there when you need me. I keep your secrets. I've seen you at your worst. I know your bad habits. I've seen you beg and grovel. I've seen you plead for more, for favors, for just a taste.

I am your conscience. I am the devil on your shoulder. I am what you want, not what you need.

I've heard your desperate voice at 4 a.m. I've heard it at 7 a.m. I've heard it at noon. I can hear it even when you are stone-cold sober. I hear it when you are silent.

I hold the reins. I know exactly how much power I have to make your night or to ruin it. All of that in the palm of my hand-in the handoff, the hand-game-a quick palm to palm.


You put your life in my hands. Night after night. Party after party.

I can make you invincible and I can kill you.

I can make you stay up all night and find god on the dance floor or in the mirror or in the bathroom stall or in the toilet or in the face of a stranger.

I've seen you weave tapestries from the air.

I've seen your fingers communicate in Morse code.

I can make you see. And I can blind you.

I can make you divine. I can destroy you.

But I look after you. I protect you. I keep you coming back.

I am your best friend and I always pick up when you call.


The young ones come and go. They attach themselves to me. They want to do what I do. They want my superhuman strength. They think that all it takes is the ability to stay up all night and sleep all day. They think that comes from handfuls of pills. Envelopes of powder. But it takes more than drugs to sell drugs. Especially when you're me-a woman.

You didn't expect that, did you? The first time you called? The first time someone pointed me out to you across the club, on the beach, at the back of the bar?

A woman. A mother. A wife.

Have you noticed that I'm sober when you're not? Have you noticed that I keep an eye on everything-that I'm keeping tabs, keeping track, keeping count, and keeping score. That I know who took what, who needs more, who has had too much?


You ever walked into the back room of the back room of the back room of a party at 3 a.m. to find seven guys on the wrong end of the night? Angry and amped, their attention-their fury and impatience-trained on you?

You ever been held up at gunpoint in an empty warehouse by a new supplier who wanted your cash?

You ever been pawed, patted, probed-fingers inside you-to make sure you weren't carrying a gun yourself?

You ever had to stand up to men twice your size, ten times as high, and forty times as brutal?

You probably think it's all parties and perks and VIP areas and backstage passes and comps.

You ever been raided? Surveilled?

Chased? Beaten? Choked? Cheated out of thousands of thousands?

You ever been caught at the UK border carrying five thousand pills destined for Creamfields and been offered a deal-flip on your suppliers and walk?

You ever sit there as they ask and ask and ask you to name names? As they isolate you and dehumanize you?

Excerpted from Ecstasy by Ivy Pochoda. Copyright © 2025 by Ivy Pochoda. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.