• Autumn in Boston


    Oars flash
    against red
    a plane arcs
    into gold
    and I think

    I could forget
    my fear of flying

    Last week, I took a cab to work and as we crossed over the Longfellow Bridge I was so moved, I took out my phone and wrote a poem. Autumn in Boston is profoundly beautiful. Seasons are often loose approximations of symbols and concepts that indicate the passage of time. But September, October, and November in Boston represent the actual platonic ideal of what autumn is. For weeks on end, each beam of light falls with a sweetness, each rustle of trees both comforting and exciting with mystery. Even driving on the highway becomes a breathtaking endeavor, as you’re cradled on both sides by a prism of foliage that is capable of reminding you of the ways in which we are all connected to the Earth.

    . . .

  • Write the Next One

    How surreal that I have reached the of my novel-writing journey where I am querying agents! And when someone responds to my query asking to see the full manuscript, there is actually a manuscript to give! Absolutely mind-blowing stuff. Some, such as my partner and my parents, think that this is a victory in itself. They are wrong. Victory will only be achieved when my debut novel has entered its paperback run and is prominently displayed in a “Staff Recommendations” section of a bookstore, complete with a little handwritten blurb about how the bookseller is “obsessed.” Only then shall I know joy.

    Until then, the querying shall continue. The thing about that is, querying involves far less creative efforts than, say, writing a book. What does someone do with all of this newfound free time that was, until recently, occupied by weekly writing and editing sessions?

    After some investigation, it seems there is actually a straightforward answer to this question: write the next one.

    Open up a crispy new Word Document and put down all of the ideas you’ve been tucking away into the corners of your mind. Their time is finally here! Let the intimidation of the fresh page humble you for the first time in a long time.

    Oh! Well in that case, here I go.

    . . .

  • Life Lately

    Editing a Book

    I am in the midst of editing a novel and consequently each day is full of surprises. Will I wake and find I have written the most unreadable, godforsaken piece of text ever crafted? Or will I sit down at my computer and scroll through one delightful passage after the next, reassured of my own genius? I love hearing other writers talk about their processes for writing. Creating is beautiful and pure and simple. I hate hearing other writers talk about their editing processes. This involves labor and self-doubt and coming to terms with the fact that fiction is a process that can take years. I have never been more certain of my own worthlessness than when I read about how Lauren Groff “starts something new, she writes it out longhand in large spiral notebooks. After she completes a first draft, she puts it in a bankers box — and never reads it again. Then she’ll start the book over, still in longhand, working from memory.”

    At the Cape

    After living in Massachusetts for nearly two years, I only just visited Cape Cod for the first time. A friend told me they knew of a “secret beach” near the Wellfleet area and so, on the Fourth of July, we drove the two hours out from Camrbidge. After turning off the highway, a gravel road gave way to a dirt road gave way to a sand road. My mind began to fill with visions of my hybrid, wheels spinning in sand, and my cellphone signal, dead. Just before the panic attack exploded into sobs and shakes, the dunes emerged through the forest and we were there, one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen in my life. A goal for myself in the future is to be less skittish about wading into the ocean.

    Chappell Roan

    She is the moment and she deserves it all. Her success is so deserved and I am eager to remain a devotee for the years to come. I have also been listening to a lot of Laufey, Ichiko Aoba, Charli (though my Brat Girl Summer dreams remain elusive), and Kara Jackson. In fact, the lattermost’s song “no fun/party” may be the purest summation of my feelings these last few months.

    Neopets Fixation

    I recently achieved a childhood dream of earning a spot on the Neopets Game Room leaderboards. The problem is I have now become fixated on elevating myself from Bronze status to Gold in the game Faerie Bubbles. It’s a shameful situation, really. I will pretend to be doing other, more productive things on my laptop, when in reality I am shooting cartoon bubbles at each other with highly-calculated precision. But I remain convinced I will achieve Gold and, as with all other fixations, see that as my cue to cease the game altogether.

    Deciding to be Happy

    Life isn’t so simple that one can just “decide to be happy” and make it so. That said, maybe a more appropriate header for this section would be “consciously decided to avoid the sunk cost fallacy” but that doesn’t have the same sparkle. Either way, I do feel my headspace gradually moving into one free of shame and doubt about the direction of my life. There are practical considerations that remain, but those feel less relevant and less practical with each passing day.

    . . .

  • The Protest Vote

    It’s an election year, which means that the amount of time I spend getting dragged into arguments on Reddit has tripled in the last quarter. I know, I know — it’s a complete waste of my time and energy (and I am proud to say this tendency has decreased since my early 20’s, life being too short and all of that, but still. It’s a thing, so work with me here).

    As I was saying, it’s an election year. In 238 days, the United States will relive 2020’s hellish showdown between two rich, senile ghouls. Given this, the moderate rhetoric around every urgent political issue has shifted to the “vote about it” angle. It feels borderline hysterical, the way that large swaths of our society shriek about the need to “vote!” It’s so rare that this instruction to vote is ever coupled with any encouragement of something to vote for. It’s almost as if it doesn’t matter.

    This year, things feel a bit different. In a show of protest against the United States’s involvement in the Palestinian genocide, organizers are successfully encouraging voters to select “uncommitted” on their ballots, as opposed to an actual candidate. In my home state of Massachusetts, 10% or 55,000 voters declared themselves uncommitted.

    The goal of this organizing strategy is to send a message: our votes are not guaranteed. Every four years the Democratic Party relies on youth, relies on women, relies on people of color, relies on the disenfranchised and vulnerable to prop them up without question — all the while their policies and figureheads inch further and further rightward. An uncommitted vote is meant as a wake up call that — shocking — we actually expect our candidates to engage with and to act based upon our ideas. Seventy-six percent of Democrats are asking for a ceasefire, but no Democratic candidate is willing to reflect the will of the majority. Oh right: we live in a republic. Sorry, I forget myself.

    The funny thing is, I’m actually not the cynical one. I remain unsurprised and unjaded by the actions of my corporate-sponsored overlords. It’s freeing — you should try it! The choking mass of cynicism all around us becomes apparent why you try to encourage someone to think beyond the CNN and Fox News binary. You will be informed that by doing so, by demanding more from the powerful, you are the threat. You are the one putting the entire system at risk. The neoliberal mindset would have me believe that I am the sole barrier between democratic order and authoritarianism. Me? How charming!

    Regarding the aforementioned Reddit debates, I did find myself at the center of such ungodly controversy last week when I proclaimed my pride that tens of thousands of my neighbors opted to vote for “uncommitted” in the primary. People whose post history was comprised largely of thinly-veiled racism towards brown people pleaded with me not to “throw away” my vote. “You don’t get it — it will be so much worse if we lose!” About three seconds of introspection could illuminate that complacency does more to uphold individuals like Donald Trump than I ever could.

    I will speak more on that individual as well, as it unfortunately needs to be said. A complete lack of imagination has lead us to a general discourse where any overt critiques of the Democratic Party are perceived as a “de facto” endorsement of Trump. How shameful. What I would love to know, though, is what any of these weak-minded individuals were doing the four years Trump was actually in office. I surely didn’t see them doing much more than sharing whatever Saturday Night Live segment was relevant that week. Were you at the airport after the Muslim Ban? Were you in the streets screaming out against his lawmaking against transgender people in the military? Were you working to ensure that reproductive freedoms would remain protected? No, I don’t think you were — because I was there and didn’t see any of you.

    This will be the third presidential election in which I am an eligible voter, and it turns out — per the violently desperate superpac emails in my inbox — they are all the most important election of my life! Wait…I’m getting a vision. Something tells me that no matter who wins this election, life in the United States will continue to deteriorate at a rapid pace — and 2028 will officially be the most important election of my lifetime.

    I do feel deeply sorry for the vote-crazed. You wake up every morning and you really see the world as a pale and changeless mass of rot. You think to yourself “I won’t even try for something better, I will just eke out my meager existence on this plane and be grateful that I don’t have it quite so bad.” The guys who do have it quite so bad don’t even enter the equation. What an unfortunate way to be — your only joys in life are for voting (just the simple act will do — it’s all style no substance for you anyway), and bemoaning those who yearn for more as unrealistic troublemakers.

    I am, and proud of it! I will go down kicking and screaming, asking to live in a world worth living in. I will never be satisfied; I will continue to beg for more. Please, just a scrap of a better future. Just a drop! Anything!

    . . .

  • The Return of the Blog

    Does anyone really blog anymore?

    I would require multiple appendages to count the total number of blogs I’ve had in my lifetime. LiveJournal confessionals, scenster-era Xanga pages that were more form than substance, BlogSpot-based chronicles of my high school fashion choices — I even had a short-lived Tumblr dedicated to ranking the quality of my Tinder dates.

    Perhaps the personal blog was bystander casualty in the 2010’s War Against the Personal Essay. “We don’t want writing about your lived experience, we want unreadable experimental writing that thinly veils your lived experience!” and so forth. But as I write this, the number of places to publish (and, you know, read) any kind of non-AI-generated writing is shrinking by the hour. This morning, it was announced that Jezebel would be shutting down after 16 years.

    It make sense that models like Substack are on the rise. Where else do writers have but whatever corner of the internet allows them to carve out a space for themselves? Even better if, like Substack, they promise a profitable, growth-oriented model. Medium did the same thing a few years ago, and after cultivating 2,200 readers and hundreds of thousands of views on my posts there, I earn approximately $0.02 each month. So here I am, keeping my intellectual property to myself and bringing it all back to where it started: the blog.

    There is peace and joy in complete uselessness. I’m pretty sure Thich Nhat Hanh said that. To write without a “growth-oriented” mindset and without the constraints of whatever terrible business decision will land in the publishing industry’s lap next. To do something and remember what it was like to care about it before it fed you.

    The other day on Twitter, writer Jamie Hood declared “the age of irony poisoning is over … earnest girlies rise up!” And I have personally never been more excited for such a cultural shift. I will see you on the blog.

    . . .