Seven years ago today, my first (...and only) book was published. I made the absurd mistake of looking back at some pub day photos earlier this week when I realized yet another significant anniversary of mine was encroaching, and let me tell you: I cannot recommend actively seeking out photos of yourself fulfilling a life goal at a younger, happier, totally collagen-filled age enough, especially while you are unemployed and somehow stuck on lower blephtok. A+ idea all-around.
A joke! I joke. I love to tell a totally predictable joke!
09/04/2018, ugh UGH
Actually, though, I have been marinating tons on that publishing process lately, and I suspect going out of my way to find those pictures was just another more conscious way of punching myself in the face with…something this whole week. Anyway, as I’m working through a more complicated reported piece on medical trauma and body image for next week, I thought I’d put a little blast together on what that recurrent something might be.
So! Here are some unorganized thoughts from a serial pessimist who is (1) trying to silver-line a bit more and (2) continuing to search for meaning~* and purpose~*~* amidst a continued period of ups and downs. If you are even remotely similar, you’ll like it. If you’re not…I love you for being here, but I’m not quite sure why or how you are! Regardless, to quote 184 of my current favorite tarot creators: Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t.
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An unorthodox pep talk is not the worst thing sometimes.
In no way am I telling you to stand in front of a mirror or a picture and beat yourself up about how far you’ve fallen (sincerely—I’m not. Please don’t!), but I am finding a little bit of merit in the occasional compare-contrast exercise these days. Forget how long it’s been. Look at yourself having already done an awesome thing and growl about it: ‘I did that once. I’m far fucking scrappier now. I. can. do. it. again.’ Something about the pushing and needling rather than the more sensical grace and patience works for me sometimes. If I had to guess, I’d say this is an overly heady attempt to push myself out of living in the past (one I’m very proud of, it turns out!) into a future I’m even more excited about, yeah? Is that sickness? Is it psychology? I don’t know! But most of my job-hunting and writing gets done on days that start like that.
…That said, one of my all-time favorite editors once gave me the (correct) note to start writing around ‘the worst’ immediately because it was the only phrasing I’d ever use to describe anything. (Emma, are you out there? Do you read this shit? Oh god, ARE YOU SO ASHAMED OF ME?) Nevermind, scratch this whole thing!!
my delish desk sometime circa…2019? orig post-it gifted circa the cosmo heydays of 2015. i still keep it on my desk.
…Neither is the teeniest, tiniest touch of confirmation bias.
This whole existential era of my life—at least the bits since I’ve been coherent enough to think, like, big, clear-headed thoughts—has been defined by “OK fine! You lost your job! You know what you ‘should’ or need to do next, but what do you want to do next?” All it took was one gut-punching glance at that adorable picture to remember…I loved writing. I love writing! I want to write.
When I wrote that book, I was basically writing and editing and communicating for a living. I’ve spent the years since figuring out how to do just that in other, more roundabout ways, but voila: This picture, this anniversary, has finally given me a through-line. From baby writer to editorial director, I have always been an excellent communicator. (Let the record show it took immense willpower to refrain from making the Hannah Horvath connection. Immense!!) Anyway. Whatever I do next, it should be with the goal of legitimately and meaningfully connecting with people via my very eloquent nonsense.
How nice to finally have the answer to a question that has been vexing me for a very, very long time.
You did that. I did that. We did do that! Whatever, you get it.
I wish so much looking at that picture that I hadn’t spent the subsequent years under-selling my accomplishments, both at that time and through the rest of my career to date. “It’s not even a real book,” I’d dismiss every single time it’d come up in conversation. “I don’t know what I do, ha ha ha!” I still sometimes say. That stings real good at this particular moment in time. I have been putzing around very stressed about how I should describe myself to other people during this blurry, seemingly indefinite time, when I could totally be calling myself an author or a writer or an editor or—GOD DAMMIT—a talent and that…would be 100 percent accurate. But I can’t! And I won’t! Not yet, at least. Not yet.
All the more reason to try and do it again, I suppose.
Ironic that this post is some of the…well, it’s simply some of the worst writing I’ve ever done. But it’s what I’ve got for you at the moment. See you next week. It’ll be fun-ish, as always, I promise.
one! 👏 more! 👏 book! 👏