An Anniversary

one year from my first byline and the only thing I share with Carrie Bradshaw is a chaotic dating life

A year of firsts, the highs (press events with open bars, binge-watching TV shows and calling it “work research”), the lows (my worsening astigmatism and latent strabismus) and the lack of a Bradshaw-esque walk-in closet. I’m still perpetually looking for a job, but this is what I’ve been up to for the past year.

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For the majority of my life, writing was strictly academic. My essays were read by professors and the occasional classmate who agreed to look over my work before submission. I still think my best work to date is my undergraduate dissertation on the influence of intersectionality on black feminist literature, a ten-thousand-word piece that no one besides my supervisor and parents has ever bothered to read. I was happy to keep it that way. I had journal entries for my eyes only, long birthday cards for my best friends, rapid-fire texts when something was blowing up on the group chat. Writing on Substack was a marriage between all three. I had just handed in my master’s dissertation and had a newfound abundance of free time. At the same time, I was struggling to keep up with my friends, especially the ones living far away. The newsletter was born from a moment of both boredom and need for connection, and once a month I would land in their inboxes with a play-by-play of everything I had been up to. All bets were off; this wasn’t a publicly listed domain, and since only my close personal friends were on that mailing list, I would illustrate with screenshots and intimate details. As my search for a corporate job continued, I started to slowly lose my mind, and writing became a refuge. It gave me something to do in between job applications, and slowly allowed me to regain my confidence as I felt increasingly incompetent in my jobless state. I was told to wait for a volunteering spot to open up at the Keats Community Library; given that most of their volunteers are octogenarians, I wasn’t exactly keen on what events would lead to an available position. Once I opened up the newsletter to the public, the content had to change; I was no longer just venting to my close friends, but the confessional tone remained.

Most of my writing came from mining my personal life for content. Names and identifying details were changed, but given how entertained my friends were at the bar when I gave them a rundown of my most recent shenanigans, I figured this would be a good place to start. Writing for a little over a hundred people felt inconsequential. Sure, sometimes newsletter mentions would have repercussions in my real life, but I was willing to write it off as an occupational hazard. When I got dumped over a Substack post, I made a joke of it, telling myself I was on a generational run when I met someone at a party and realised that was my claim to fame, as they said Oh my god, that was YOU?! Taking a break from milking my personal life, along with working on a few external projects, meant leaving my Substack out to dry, and my latest bout of writer’s block paired with my friends being away for the summer meant I had a lot of time left for introspective journalling, which is a dangerous undertaking if you’re anxious like me.

Pride and Prejudice (2005)

I’ve spent a lot of time reminiscing on the past year. Last summer, I was having a semi-public breakdown; I had no job, no prospects, I felt like a burden to my family and had no idea what I was doing with my life. A year ago today, though, something changed; I got my first byline. What they say is true: you never forget your first, and in a summer when I felt like every aspect of my life was falling apart, seeing my name next to an article felt like a good omen. It wasn’t a this is it moment; I was still lost, but at least I had some sense of direction.

A lot has happened in the past year, yet I still catch myself in limbo. I compare myself to my friends from school and university, who are working serious corporate jobs and moving in with their partners. A lifetime of being on the same page erased by a year of being worlds apart; they have their whole lives planned out and I still don’t know which continent I’ll be living in the next few months or where I’m meeting my friends for dinner tonight. They mourn a loss of spontaneity, but I doubt they would trade in their routine and stability for an endless supply of crazy nights out, even with the juicy stories that come with it. On the flip side, I also feel like I’m falling behind my creative, fun freelancing friends. I’m not pitching enough, not writing enough. I don’t have a novel in the works or a Rolodex of editors hitting me up, and in all that time I’ve spent not writing, I’m also not partying/networking/coming up with hedonistic content.

I worry that I’m not old enough or intimidating enough or serious enough to be a “serious writer,” though the dark brown hair, tortoise glasses and comparative literature degree might lend me a modicum of credibility, and I lack the it factor, ability to pull off smudged mascara, and party-drug habit that would make me an unserious but alluring one. The adults who find me very smart and precocious and are impressed with my literary references haven’t met the Dimes Square transplants in London. I’m officially too old to be the next anything. I talk too much to be mysterious but lack the commitment to a personal brand and aspirational lifestyle to be an internet persona. I love a martini, but no more than the average patron at Ellie’s, and most of my best content is kept off the record, I’ve learned my lesson from divulging the details of my dating life and will not (publicly) share what I’m doing in the bedroom.

dad reading my first piece, prepping for my first interview, first time in print!

The age-old advice of writing what you know hasn’t managed to get me out of my latest slump. Everything feels either indulgent and navel-gazing or completely irrelevant. I get excited about stories when I’m giving my friends a one-woman show over dinner, but by the following morning my characters feel tired; I have no urge to revisit them. I become reacquainted with the feeling of falling behind or not being good enough, never letting myself enjoy anything for even a minute because I have to figure out what’s next. A friend of mine recently told me that she always thought she was a bit shit at everything, and that was why she always worked so hard; that’s the mentality to which she attributes her current success. Though I categorically disagree with the evaluation of her own skills, I’ve involuntarily started to adopt the same outlook. Comparison might be the thief of joy, but as an attempt to change the reference point, I figured the one-year anniversary of my first byline would be a good occasion to look back and see what I managed to do. A few more bylines have followed, though my mother continues to be my biggest fan. Covering literary content means new releases and galleys are routinely showing up at my doorstep, something I doubt will ever get old. Every time I look at my overstuffed bookcase, or whenever I knock a few books over trying to reach something on the top shelf, I’m overcome with gratitude. In May, sharing the announcement of my first cover story had me crying for the first time since starting Prozac. My career highlight so far has been having the teens in my life telling me I was the coolest, and unknown teens on the internet asking me for life advice.

very excited to get a Lost Lambs galley, still blowing up my life because co-star said to do things for the plot, one year later as a summer intern at Wonderland (thank you mother Sofia)

I’ve spent a year giving everything a go, saying yes to every opportunity. In this economy, no one can afford to be too selective, and I’ve been open to any chance at gaining experience. I’ve learned that kindness, curiosity and enthusiasm are often rewarded. I’ve found comfort in discovering that the people I look up to also don’t have it all figured out. I’m not in the same place I was last year, though it sometimes feels like it in my heat-stricken state; I’ve tried new things, I’ve met the most interesting people, I’ve made wonderful friends, and I’ve run through every open door. Still, I don’t know what the next year holds; there’s no plan, just a general direction, a gut feeling and many possibilities. I’ve had a taste of doing something you love, of feeling excited and curious and capable, of being the least experienced person in the room and knowing you have the most to learn. Having a taste is a double-edged sword; I’ve gotten hungrier. I want to eat the world.