On discovering The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened To Me.

My last blog post was all about finding my passion for writing again and making writing more of a priority. Consider this post me diving head first into being a writer.

It’s been said that all good writers write what they know. And during this period quarantine during this coronavirus pandemic, I’ve been bingewatching “Sex and the City” to pass the time. Right now, there’s something really appealing about the simplicity and style of it all. I’ve slowed down the bingeing though, and very recently, I’ve decided to try to only watch one episode a day, to make it last through this indefinite period of social distancing. The episode I watched the other day had my favorite scene of the series (so far, I should add; I have between ten and fifteen episodes left).

Carrie Bradshaw, elegant and graceful heroine, goes to San Francisco as part of her book tour. Her book, it should be mentioned, is a collection of articles from her newspaper column, and those articles are just anecdotes and observations from her dating life. A lot of the anecdotes and observations revolve around Mr. Big, charming and complex leading man who hurt her terribly time and time again, but Carrie just can’t help herself when it comes to Big.

Do you see why I felt compelled to watch?

Anyway, the San Francisco stop on her book tour is not AT ALL what Carrie hoped for and at probably her lowest moment (pimple on her cheek and no one interested in what she had to say through her writing), Big shows up. He was at her reading the whole time and stood to ask a question: if the Mr. Big character was based on a real person. How fucking suave; it reminds me of  particular moment with a particular man from my past (who irritatingly reappears in my present).

Later, they’re in Carrie’s hotel room and all she wants is sex, but all Big wants is to talk about what she wrote. He actually read her book cover to cover and realized how badly he’d hurt her.

So that’s my new fantasy: the man who ruined me for all other men to come reads my book and becomes determined to talk it out with me. And maybe it ends in sex, but whatever. I don’t think that’s the point – or the only point.

Does this mean I’m ready to write about him? Intentionally, I mean, because everything I write is really about him anyway. But even if I’m ready, does that mean I should? Would everybody know if I tried writing about him on this blog? And by “everybody,” I mean the seven fucking people who read it.

Shit – I think I’m actually getting excited about this. That has to be a good sign, right?

So stay tuned for my first installment next week: episode one of The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened to Me.

On a September to remember (fingers crossed).

life-starts-all-over-again-when-it-gets-crisp-in-the-fall

I know I j u s t updated this blog less than a week ago, but I want to get into the habit of updating weekly. On Wednesdays. Because Wednesdays are for writing. Get it?

And I love starting fresh in September. I became a teacher- in part- because the schedule was so appealing to me. I love feeling like I can start again in the ninth month of the year. That makes me feel like anything is possible.

This September, I’ll be 31 years old. I’m S U P E R excited to say goodbye to 30 (I’ve had a horrible year), but I still have some misgivings about embarking on another trip around the sun. When I bring this up, everyone emphasizes how young I actually am to assuage my fears over getting older. But just how long has “your 30s are your new 20s” been a thing? I’ve been quick to conclude it is a fairly recent development, but now I realize that may only be because I wanted it to be fresh when I turned 30. With one year of my third decade about to be under my belt, I have to ask myself if there is any truth to the clever, little saying, or if it is just a way to help those of us without money or power or fame to feel better about our inescapable mortality.

I’d like to think there’s truth to it, not only because I’m now in my 30s but because as we live, we gain new experiences, which can make us wiser as long as we’re open to that possibility. I get upset because I’m nearly 31 and I’m not married (and not in a relationship, or even close to being in one) and I don’t have kids and I haven’t made it as a writer. And because I understand “Sex and the City” now. Or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell when Candace Bushnell, the author of the essays that inspired the show, now regrets choosing her Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle over having kids (you can read the article here). And if the gorgeous elegance of Carrie Bradshaw proves to be empty and superficial, what am I doing? In my darkest, loneliest moments, I convince myself that it is too late, that I’ve been living a lie by clinging to an empty promise of grandeur sold to me by the mass media.

But that’s kind of bullshit too, isn’t it? I mean, I’m only 30. I have half a century to live. Have I really missed any shots at anything? Thus why I’m declaring this a SEPTEMBER TO REMEMBER! I will not fear turning 31, but I will embrace it by accomplishing a few goals:

  • lose five pounds
  • submit a polished entry to the Owl Canyon Press Hackathon
  • finish revising Moody Blue
  • hold a contest on this blog at the end of the month

What are your goals for September? Are you getting any writing done? What are your thoughts about aging? Comment below and let’s have a conversation.