The moment I finally called myself a writer
In the midst of my most liminal time, I am finding my voice.
There is always that one random day that surprises us during the first few months of the year. It teases the end of winter with its suspiciously warm sunny temperatures and has everyone in NYC in a frenzy.
We had a day like that this past Sunday to remind us that winter won’t always winter and that there are colors that exist in the world that aren’t 50 shades of gloom. If you look closely, sundrops of yellow and vibrant purple can already be spotted pushing their tiny crocus buds through the dirt. They sit nestled in tree beds next to decaying leaves and littered candy wrappers, unearthed by melted snow from just a few weeks ago.
On days like these, the city becomes crowded, even more so than usual. The pandemic-era outdoor sheds that still persist in my neighborhood are full of laughter and brunches and have me intensely craving french fries as I walk by: crispy, hot, and golden, and flecked with generous amounts of salt. Lines snake out the door again for $7 ice cream cones and for once you envy the dudes who can’t wait to put on shorts the minute temperatures rise above 50 because you overdressed like an idiot, a hot sweaty idiot, in this surprisingly warm weather because no one knows how to dress in March.
Everyone takes a deep collective breath because a beautiful spring-like day this early in the year is a fluke and we know it’ll be gone because March doesn’t care that we’re desperate to shake our winter malaise.
But I needed this, to make me feel something again.
So far, 2024 isn’t giving me any joy.
And since I can’t just discard, recycle, give away, or banish it to the streets of my neighborhood (which by the way, is a vortex of free cycle good karma. People will pick up literally anything off the streets of brownstone Brooklyn) I’m stuck with 2024 and have been desperately trying to steer the ship right since the year started.
I can’t even put a pin on why the year feels so off, aside from some chronic physical ailments that have me really feeling my age and more hormonal bullshit that have me really feeling my gender. I seem to be melting in a pool of apathy that I can’t pull myself out of.
It’s not that life is bad.
On the contrary, especially in contrast to the past few legitimately horrible years, a boring year like this one should be welcome. And it is, except I’m also stuck in the most liminal of liminal spaces: not quite Spring; not quite an empty nest; not quite working but still working; not quite myself.
One of the reasons why I’ve been feeling so stuck is because we haven’t gone anywhere since August.
I know. You might be thinking, “why do you need to leave? It’s New York City!”
Sure, it’s NYC and we have almost everything except big nature, but the reality of everyday life here is just like anywhere else: the same mundane struggles of what to make for dinner every night, the same confusion of figuring out which piece of trash goes in which recycling bin. Life just feels grinding at times and sometimes you need a break from it. You can understand this, right?
This Fall and Winter were sprints towards the kid’s college applications and weekends were full of writing angsty “who am I” essays. We didn’t really have an opportunity to go away as I was here for my kid’s emotional and editing support. In the end it was all a blur.
And now we wait.
A liminal time for me and the kid. Emails that will decide her next four years. It holds too much gravity even though it shouldn’t.
Will I be paying tuition behind door number one for $30k a year? Or how about $60k behind door number two? Let’s not forget the most audacious ridiculousness of them all: a mind-boggling $90k a year possibility that looms menacingly out-of-reach behind door number three.
My financial future hangs in suspense.
I’ve noticed that during this time, I’ve slowly dropped all pretenses of appearing like I have it all together and I confirmed this: I’m tired of holding my composure for everyone else. I’ve been doing it all my life. For my kids, for my family, for my jobs, for customers, for my stupidly curated Instagram grid.
What I’m left with is my true voice. For the first time in a long time, I’m feeling free to let it all hang: the unapologetic snarkiness, the rambling, the messy midlife meltdowns. I am, by nature, quite sarcastic and a tad too cynical for my own good. Maybe this is the native New Yorker in me or a coping mechanism, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m at an age where I just don’t care anymore and I’m not afraid to express it.
I used to hold back because sarcasm doesn’t translate well in writing unless you really know a person. Trust me, I learned this the hard way.
But even as I risk being on the receiving end of comments by a concerned follower who misunderstands the self deprecating captions on my social media posts and scolds me to love myself more (this really happened), this unapologetic, messy, and sometimes loud voice is here to stay.
**
“You should stop the writing if it stresses you out so much,” suggests my mother, who presumably is responding to my last newsletter where I describe my very angst-filled, two-day process of writing. No mother wants to see their child in a fetal position again, especially one my age.
“No!” I interject a little too quickly, “The writing stuff is fine” I argue back as I continue to yell in my head, nooo! Don’t take away the writing!
Yesterday at dinner, I announced to my family that I had already written a healthy working draft of what you’re reading now.
“But it’s only Monday!” exclaims my youngest child, who knows all too well the weekly cycle of newsletter writing in our house.
I never once imagined that writing would be the thing that I needed to do.
And just like that, I’m finally calling myself a writer.
This week’s drawing
I had some immediate regrets about sharing last week’s awful drawing which I described to someone as “heinous.” But it served its purpose in charting my progress and I worked through learning how to gain more control with the medium. This week I drew another moody charcoal portrait.
A few links this week
My grandmother became a meme and it's kind of my fault (NPR) - An interesting story that can happen to almost anyone, if you think about it.
You Can’t Always Tell What a Story’s About From Its Title
is the Accidental Icon. Although I was not familiar with her journey as an older style influencer, I admire her as a writer and a woman who is reshaping her narrative by taking control of her story.The Archaeology of the Inner States I met
on Threads and he told me recently that I inspired him to start a Substack. I don’t know if that is really true, but his second newsletter is an achingly beautiful essay about his father’s dementia. As someone who has witnessed this myself, it spoke to me.KOREA vlog (YouTube) For the two of you who watch my Korea travel vlogs, the last video (I think!) is up. Working on this video almost pained me—I want to go back. I want to go anywhere, actually. Yes, the restless cabin fever is bad.
Reader polls! This is about you! I mean, it’s still sort of about me, but it’s also about you!
You know, it’s funny. I worked as a UX and product designer where user research was just drilled into my brain for so long, but it never really occurred to me to do any user research on my readers.
Please indulge me on these polls and don’t make me feel like the loser in middle school who was always picked last in gym class. It’s just a few clicks, I swear.
(and please excuse any typos in the polls, I can’t modify it 🤦🏻♀️)
So. There’s this feature on Substack where you can host chats. I’ve never done these chats, nor have I ever participated in any chats. But would paid subscribers want to have a scheduled chat?? Like about some very specific topics of interest? Or maybe not even anything that structured, like a Q&A? I don’t know how I feel about this! It’s giving me anxiety already! But here’s a bonus poll.
And if there wasn’t anything covered here (I can only add five topics to these polls), please let me know in comments. As always, thank you for reading, especially if you reached the end.
Thank you Jenna, for including a link to my stuff. It means a lot. Reading this had me thinking why it's hard to call ourselves what we are. Validation and invalidation are all over the place and thoroughly inconsistent. I remember the first time I confidently called myself an artist. This was after devoting everything to it for three years after art school. I had just sold a large piece for $3500 and finally felt justified. But really, that didn't change a thing about whether I was an artist or not. I still struggle with this all these years later, but I realize now that I am what I am and this is something no one can give me and no one can take away. It's the one absolute consistent thing.
I think it takes a lot courage and vulnerability to say "So far, 2024 isn’t giving me any joy." when the all the narratives are telling us that the start of a new year is supposed to be good, fresh, and full of hope.
You're definitely a writer, and a very good one. Thank you for sharing your story!