Thursday, October 29, 2009

Finally Using his Name

He wrote a blog to say goodbye to a lost love and in it he included a beautiful song by The Cure.

It made me sad to know that I still harbor these hurt feelings, this wanting to know, this longing for Sean after I barely knew him. I barely knew him and to him, although he didn't say it in so many words, I was nothing. I was just one more pretty and willing girl in Portland, charmed by him and his cigarettes and his writing and his words and the leather jacket and the motorcycle. And after all this time I still can't let him go entirely. I think he will always haunt me, which makes me sick to my stomach, because here I am pining for more than a year, numerous emo-inspired blog posts written about him, and for what? For someone who didn't care enough about me to even register me on his map.

And the saddest part of all is at least Andrew's affair involved a song, with beautifully written words invoking all sorts of feelings for someone who once loved him, who saved him, whom he loved deeply.

I'll never get a song from Sean (yes, I'm finally using his name, because, as I said, I'm quite sure he's forgotten me). If only I could know that I meant something to someone I thought was so special.

But like Andrew said, the woman he loved died--she vanished. And I came to find out that the man I hit it off with so well was both himself on that first moving-the-office-day and something else that I didn't like.

I'm consoled by the fact that a week after I met Andrew, he saw fit to write me a gorgeous letter---one I still reread and keep tucked away in a protective box.

Maybe one day I'll get a song.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

New Goals

"What can I write? I don't have any characters or plot. Who wants to read what I have to say?"

"Hunter S. Thompson wrote the Rum Diary-- a novel about trying to be a journalist while he was doing journalism."

And with that, he sparked an idea. If McCaulay Culkin can write a little novel with sketches and personal journal statements and Hunter S. Thompson becomes one of the most forward thinking and revered journalists of all time, all starting with nothing but an idea and talent, why can't I, I ask myself.

So this is my new project: and I will detail its parts in a list

1) Don't be too hard on myself (i.e. don't mentally paralyze myself before I've even begun or been turned down/ rejected)

2) Instead of being heads-down and fact checking at work---I'm going to be more present. I will write pitches and I will become more visible to Ann Herold, Mary Melton, Matthew Segal and such.

3) Take (a or many) creative writing course(s).

4) Start writing novel and look into getting it published

5) Learn Adobe and other digital illustration programs

6) Keep up on technology, blogging, new websites and such

7) And most of all KEEP THE FAITH THAT THE NATURAL TALENT I POSSESS WILL BE ENOUGH TO MAKE ME BRAVE ENOUGH TO SEEK OUT OPPORTUNITIES AND TO STICK WITH WRITING

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Aimless

I don't have much time to write this, and in fact I should be getting ready for my real job....you know, the one that actually pays....

Had lunch with my editor yesterday and am now in a real fix. Here's the issue; I can either remain an intern, helping a magazine, getting an intern credit getting more clips, but for what? Is journalism, even magazine journalism dying a slow death, or, when the economy finally recovers, will magazines bounce back as well? And who am I if not a writer? What else can I pursue that will make me feel fulfilled? After all, I've spent so much time going after writing, writing, writing. Working for free, which I hate. And I'm at the point now, where living with my parents is doable, but I've paid my dues. I want a place of my own.

But I've worked so hard and for so long in the writing field. What if I give up and Los Angeles Magazine is poised to offer a job and then I'm not around to be considered? How long should I hold on for? I'm not sure.

When will this economy speed up? When will it get better? When will the national anxiety go away? Not sure, but praying every damn day.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Finally Sharing Paris for M

I light a candle as I sit down to write this--the first post I've written in over a month. And though I shall not name the person to whom this post is dedicated, simply calling him "M," I will say that I write this as a prayer or my attempt to give solace to him, the story is written and the candle is lit for him.

When I came home from Paris in January of 2007, I was devastated and my nerves were shot. Up until this point I had suffered no real heartbreak, but this undid me. Every dream I had ever had had previously been attainable; success in school was guaranteed as long as I tried, which I did. High marks and praise from teachers followed, as did acceptance into prestigious, rigorous universities. Becoming a competent equestrienne only depended on my natural skill, my practice and observation of horses and trainers' techniques....you get the point. As long as I tried, applied myself, and found interest in the thing which I wanted to accomplish, they were mine.

Not so with Paris. Since middle school, my dream was to study abroad, to learn a beautiful language and speak it fluently. I wanted to live abroad, in France or Italy, experience the beauty and the differences of those cultures. And so, I found myself as a sophomore in college, being accepted into a program for study abroad which would incorporate my scholarship money and allow me to attend classes at places like the Sorbonne in Paris for the spring.

I was enthusiastic about the upcoming trip. I was so excited and I did everything right; I was the young woman who read up on the Parisian culture, who studied maps so I knew exactly where I'd be living and studying upon getting to Paris. I had maps, I reviewed the transit system and made numerous copies of my passport, visa, identification and medication information--one for me, one for my parents, one for the school center and one for my luggage. I prepared the most anyone could.

And then I got there and the roiling anxiety that had been brewing in my belly for weeks and months came to a boil. I got to Paris, went to my host family's home and the anxiety pot was knocked off the stove, anxiety spilling everywhere. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat (being in Paris, something I looked forward to), I couldn't laugh, I couldn't concentrate. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. I was completely isolated, away from everything that meant something to me---my parents, my animals (Aussie Pup was no more than three months old), my friends, my aunt, American entertainment and television. So consumed with nervous energy I stalked the city crying, spending countless hours haunting Le Metro, walking into the evening hours, not stopping for water or food, doing nothing but walking, because walking was the only thing keeping me from insanity.

I was in nine different types of pain, and I could do nothing but go home, because I felt that if I didn't go back home to the US as soon as possible, I was going back to the US in a body bag.

And so, ten days after going to Paris, right before the semester began, I returned home, to a family that was accepting and loving and not ashamed of me. In fact, it was I who was ashamed of myself. I was the one who had failed me; for the first time in my life, I could not accomplish something I wanted, I couldn't succeed. I was crushed and although this happened more than two years ago, I am still very tethered to the pain. It has colored my world ever since, and since then, it has become a habit of mine to see a situation turn out in negative ways instead of the optimistic Carolyn, who once found it so easy to believe that only the best in life could happen. Fear crept into my world; fear of depression, fear of the dying of dreams, fear of loss and isolation. "The Fear," as Hunter S. Thompson wrote in his Las Vegas-set novel is still with me.

I write this for one main reason: to share my experience with someone who is feeling something similar. He chose a path in life which he thought would give him experience and direction and after six months, he came back home. When I came home, it was to a family who loved me, who did their best to make me feel better, who were easier on me than I was on myself, and I had the ability to speak to a counselor who was supportive as well.

Unlike me, M is not so lucky. Since I don't know him extensively, I can only imagine what his heart is feeling and his mind is thinking. He's handsome, highly intelligent and cultured, possessing a depth of emotion I think many young people (in particular, men) may lack. One more thing has not worked for him, and he has returned to a less than understanding, gentle, accepting household. I believe he feels lost, and having felt like that in the past, I know it hurts.

I want to share this story with him in some small way. I want him to know that though our experiences were different, they were similar in many ways as well, and that he's not alone in feeling as he does. The truth is, to some extent, I think everyone in their twenties are lost. I know I am. And if he's feeling lost, which I think he is, I want him to know it's okay, because I'm there too, and so are many people. I want him to know that as shitty as right now feels, one day it won't feel like this, and he'll look back at this as a dark time that taught him something about life. He'll recover, and he'll figure out life. It just won't happen tomorrow.

I also want him to be easy on himself. Not only has he gone through something hard, but he returned to less-than sympathetic conditions of family and household, and the fact that he's still alive, walking, eating and functioning is something to be tremendously proud of. It is a sign of real inner strength and my fear is that with all of his modesty and self deprecation, he doesn't see that strength in himself.

Someone who was close to me and helped me through senior year, once told me that my fear of getting depressed in the future was a reliable one---in that, most likely I would experience severe depression somewhere down the road. But she said, and I'll never forget this as long as I live, that I had a sense of magic in me, a passionate fire and that, this magic would be enough to pull me through every time. If I didn't believe that today, she said, she would hold the knowledge for me and when I was ready to believe what she knew as fact, she would hand it to me and let me hold it for myself.

I don't know M very well. But he means an incredible amount to someone I love dearly, and through extension, I care about M as well. I will do my part to hold his strength in my hands, so that when he doesn't see it, I can show him. And one day, as the pain eases and drops from sight I will give it to him, so he can hold his own power in his hands.