the happiest days.

How to Write

hatboxed — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 23:07:03 +0000

First, you must find the proper spot. Ideally you want a rickety desk on the second floor of a cabin overlooking a lake in the northwoods of Wisconsin. It should be fall, or late spring, so it’s cool enough to wrap a blanket around your legs but not so cold your fingers turn blue. Bearing that, though, you may find a coffeeshop with the appropriate ambiance—a little bit worn in, a little bit rough around the edges, nothing too shiny and new. If there are many hipsters or much stainless steel in sight, you’re in the wrong place. Get a cappuccino or black coffee, but nothing with whipped cream or too much sugar, it’s undignified. If you really must put Splenda in your coffee, do it by the self-service bar so as not to mar your writerly image with yellow packets and granules of sweetener scattered about your table. If you really must, you can write at home. I suppose that desk facing the street will do, but honestly, I’m not sure how you think you can get any work done in a place so banal. Perhaps you can snuggle in bed with a cup of tea and occasionally look plaintively out the window as you write, that might work, though I’m still unconvinced that you could possibly churn out any interesting material from home. All the great writers spent time in Paris, so perhaps that’s the solution. Find someone who will fly you to Paris, then at least if your writing is trite and awful you can console yourself with pastries and Parisian men.

The desk itself is important too—it should be large enough for a laptop or a notebook or whatever it is you write on, but not so large you can clutter it with a hundred books and paper and leave no room for your soul to breathe. Nothing from Ikea, for God’s sake. If you can find an aging table with chipped paint, that would work, providing there’s some wonderful history to it. Of course, it has to be wood, those metal and laminate monstrosities won’t be any use at all. Dovetail joints, definitely. Buy it at a flea market and find love letters in the bottom drawer. Or get it at an estate sale from a grieving son whose mother used to journal there in the creeping morning light.

You can have a cup of tea, or maybe some toast with the raspberry jam you canned last summer, but keep an eye to plating. If your beverage and/or snack are not properly presented, don’t bother trying to write, it’s no use. Better to spend the time sitting at your Ikea desk reading fashion blogs if you’re going to drink diet Coke and have half a leftover pizza out of the greasy delivery box. I mean, seriously, do you think Virginia Woolf would be caught dead in your situation right now? Ramen is for the Sue Graftons and Danielle Steeles of the world. Aim higher. Maybe you can fancy yourself some sort of whimsical Harper Lee if you get the Coke in the glass bottles, but that’s probably pushing it.

Now as for you. You can’t be overly stylish if you’re going to be a writer, we’ve learned that from Hollywood. Obviously you have to be stunningly beautiful, so that’s going to be a major barrier, but your natural tendency to be somewhat frizzy-haired and rumpled will certainly be a boon. It’s too bad you don’t wear glasses. Convince yourself that your vision is blurred and go in for an eye exam. Glasses will almost certainly make you a better writer, so that’s something to work on. Wear lots of cozy sweaters. Get a chambray shirt and a slouchy leather bag. Develop lots of charming eccentricities. Diane Keaton in Annie Hall with a little dash of Gwyneth Paltrow as Sylvia Plath, minus the head in the oven. You need enough personal tragedy to be interesting, but not enough to be dead.

Now. With this advice, take stock of your life. That stool at the Ikea desk is too short, the desk is too big, you have no place to write, you’ve been drinking juiceboxes like it’s your job all morning long (so unpoetic), you’re wearing sweatpants, your vision is fine, your apartment is too small, your wardrobe is clumsy and limited, and you’ve got an ever-lingering anxiety that you’re slowly turning into a Cathy cartoon. Clearly you’re not cut out for this writing nonsense. Maybe for tonight you should just watch a few hours of Mad Men and go to sleep. Wait for your life to sort itself out; unless you’ve set the scene properly, I can’t see any sense in trying to come up with story ideas, much less put pen to paper. Probably best to just become an accountant.

words for summer

hatboxed — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 21:40:55 +0000

I kind of hate the book I’m reading, but I liked these lines:

“We know summer is the height of of being alive. We don’t believe in God or the prospect of an afterlife mostly, so we know that we’re only given eighty summers or so per lifetime, and each one has to be better then the last, has to encompass a trip to that arts center up at Bard, a seemingly mellow game of badminton over at some yahoo’s Vermont cottage, and a cool, wet, slightly dangerous kayak trip down an unforgiving river. Otherwise, how would you know that you have lived your summertime best? What if you missed out on some morsel of shaded nirvana?”

–Gary Shteyngart, Super Sad True Love Story

on the eve of the final film…

hatboxed — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 07:43:53 +0000

Thirteen years ago, I was a bookish, bossy, awkward ten-year-old with buck teeth and frizzy hair and a lingering belief in magic, when one day my dad brought home a book about a wizard boy and his friends. It’s hard to put into words what a made-up story can mean to you, especially a made-up story that has meant so much to so many people, but the best I can say it is this: recognizing flashes of yourself in imaginary characters, flashes of the parts of you that have been tucked away and studiously hidden because they were weird or different or somehow silly, is the unloneliest feeling in the world. Because suddenly, all at once, you have a whole new kindred spirit alive in your imagination, and more than that, somewhere out there is an author who maybe knows that part of you, and maybe she has it too, the bit that’s bossy or weird or still believed in magic at the much-too-grown-up age of twelve, maybe still believes today, and if you have it and she has it, then maybe there are others, and maybe, if a grown-up thinks so, it’s okay to be shy or mean sometimes or have buck teeth or frizzy hair, and maybe you can even, somehow, do great things despite all these obvious shortcomings you’ve tried so hard to squirrel away. And all at once, in the turning of pages, life feels a little bit better.

It’s been books like these that have reassured me over the years (and in the case of Harry Potter, over the most difficult middle and high school years) that it’s perfectly alright to be exactly who I am. I feel so lucky to have grown up alongside these characters, and I’m so sad to let them go, and silly as it sounds a series of children’s novels have taught me so much about being brave and kind and doing what is right even when it’s difficult. Thanks a bunch, J.K. Rowling. It’s meant a lot.

Mischief managed.

happy new year!

hatboxed — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 15:33:57 +0000

Harry: What does this song mean? My whole life, I don’t know what this song means. I mean, ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot’? Does that mean that we should forget old acquaintances, or does it mean if we happened to forget them, we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot?
Sally: Well, maybe it just means that we should remember that we forgot them or something. Anyway, it’s about old friends.

For whatever reason, the new year has never really felt like much of a new beginning to me. It falls precisely in the middle of the school year, and I was a student for so long I suppose September was always the real new year.

This is my first new year as a sort-of real adult…and I don’t really know what to make of it. 2010 might have been my best year ever, so far. It’s been a rough road, in a lot of ways, but it’s also been the beginning of coming into my own, of settling in to the friends and the habits and the quirks that will carry me through life.

In 2010, I…

-graduated from college

-traveled to Boston, New York, Iowa, and Georgia, in addition to the old standbys

-helped build two houses for Habitat for Humanity

-taught high schoolers about writing

-sang in what may have been my last recital ever

-had a lead role in a musical

-went berry picking and made jam

-visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder house, waded in Plum Creek

-went skinny dipping at midnight with friends in the river

-explored the state fair

-wrote a children’s book about fossils for my senior thesis project

-built a magical fort filled with fairy lights and slept in it for two straight weeks

-met a bunch of wonderful new people while working at the college all summer

-had a spectacular birthday, surrounded by (almost) all the people I love, complete with giant round balloons and champagne. my friends really are the greatest.

Here’s hoping that 2011 is as lovely as this year has been.

on unemployment.

hatboxed — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 01:02:19 +0000

So, as some of you (family, mandy…yep, that about rounds it out) know, i’ve been sort-of employed the past few months as a barista, and mostly not loving it. As I move further and further away from college, I seem to become better acquainted with the utter boredom and semi-depression that a learning fanatic experiences when doing absolutely nothing intellectual. Ever. I’ve been begging my mom to get me writing classes at The Loft, and finally she relented–if I wrote something in the next day, she would pay for a class. Frabjous day, etc. I woke up early, spent a solid thirty minutes (including email dawdling time) typing, and this is what I wrote.

(this is pretty much an exact representation of how i've been spending my days. complete with shiny blond hair and tabby cat. i swear)

The first day, it was exhilarating. After sixteen years of school, of deadlines, of waking up at five to frantically plunk out the last six pages of a religion paper due in three hours, the rush of an empty calendar and deadline-free days was thrilling. I slept until eleven, giddy over my lack of places to be. The weeks after followed similarly, sleeping in, taking an hour to slowly sip a mug of tea, catching up on every television show I had never before had a chance to watch. It’s important. I told myself. I need to breathe for a second! I’ve been working nonstop for sixteen years! With as little effort as possible, I got a part time job slinging chai for uptown hipsters and roving groups of Korean women in Juicy Couture tracksuits. Six hours here, four there. Nothing strenuous. Nothing that would interfere with my free time. I would spend hours languorously stretched across my bed, napping midday to recover from the exhausting effort of doing nothing. It was bliss.

Slowly, though, it lost its shimmer. The allure of watching three movies in a row on Netflix faded, until movies became a chore. With only a minimum wage paycheck, there was no possibility of inviting friends over for lavish dinners, of heading downtown to see a show, of taking that community ed cake-decorating class. My roommates, with their cheerful good natures and disposable incomes, became intolerable. Even reading a book seemed like an impossibly large commitment. Clothes piled on the floor. My unwashed hair was more bedraggled with each passing day. I wore the same socks for two weeks straight. Without a crystal meth addiction I’m not sure I can say I hit rock bottom, but I certainly fell a couple stories.

Then, my sainted mother agreed to pay for a writing class to get me off my arse if only, for the love of God, I would write something. So one quiet morning, shortly after Christmas, I sat at my computer and began to type, stopping only for a cup of tea. Anyway, I hope this is good enough, because I’d really like to be able to get out of the house for once.

one thousand words

hatboxed — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 21:14:48 +0000

Progress!

hatboxed — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 07:05:28 +0000

I am smitten with this list I’ve made. It’s nice to have a bit of motivation, to get that little extra nudge when I’m shuffling aimlessly about the house. Here’s what I’ve started on so far:

11. Do a polar bear plunge.

I’m gonna do this one, to benefit the Special Olympics. I sent out an email to recruit unsuspecting friends–we’ll see how that goes.

14. Read 10 classic novels.

My darling friend Mandy and I are starting a book club for this purpose, and we’re totally nerding out about it. I can’t wait.

15. Watch 10 movies on AFI’s 100 Years list.

In addition to the twentyish that I’ve already seen, I watched All About Eve. Bette Davis is a rockstar.

18. Get rid of 50 things.

I’ve done twenty! Good start, right? We might have to up the ante on this one.

20. Take a class at MCBA or The Loft.

I’ve skimmed the Loft catalog all the way through, and sent an email to the woman in charge of work study. Wish me luck!

So, so excited for all the great things this year will hold!

(picture)

twenty-two before twenty-three

hatboxed — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 19:22:27 +0000

i am a habitual list-maker. my journal is rife with lists: things i want (good caramel tea, a french market basket), places i’ve been (home, in love, paris), a summer 2009 to-do list (grow basil, take a letterpress class). people i’ve loved. countries i want to explore. all the things i wore three tuesdays ago. that sort of thing.

and so, in an effort to take full advantage of life, i’ve made another list: twenty-two things to try before i turn twenty-three. i plan to make this year as exploratory as possible. hopefully this will become a tradition, so when i’m ninety-five and my bad posture has given me a hunchback to rival quasimodo, i can at least know i’ve lived every year to the fullest.

so here goes.

22 before 23

Try Ethiopian food.
Run a 5k.
Visit Canada.
Knit a scarf…and actually finish it this time.
Learn calligraphy.
Make macarons or croissants. Successfully.
Go to lunch/dinner and a movie alone.
Learn some Italian.
Read L’elegance du herisson in French.
Use up the journal I bought in France.
Do a polar bear plunge.
See the northern lights.
Learn how to use my camera.
Read 10 classic novels.
Watch 10 movies on AFI’s 100 Years list.
Spend 24 hours technology-free.
Send 10 letters to friends and family.
Get rid of 50 things.
Volunteer at a homeless shelter/soup kitchen.
Take a class at MCBA or The Loft.
Go cross-country skiing.
Get a piece of creative nonfiction writing published.

Wish me luck!

(i do not know who the photo is by. if you do, please let me know so i can give credit!)

love is all you need

hatboxed — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 18:32:11 +0000

my heart is full.

hatboxed — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 06:50:29 +0000

By all accounts, this should have been a terrible summer. I’ve been dirt poor, unemployed, and i just broke up with a sweet, lovable, wonderful boy after three and a half years. My classmates are buying books for grad school, they have jobs, apartments, clearly defined paths they plan to follow, while i remain completely aimless, barely sure of my plans for the next month, let alone the next year. I should’ve been anxious and miserable.

And yet.

I’ve had a house full of friends.

I’ve had spontaneous backyard picnics, giggled over champagne with the world’s greatest roommate, sung Diana Ross songs at karaoke nights, made crêpes for groups of hungry houseguests.

I’ve gone raspberry picking, made jam, waded in the same Plum Creek that Laura Ingalls Wilder lived on, sneaked into the stadium at four in the morning to watch the sun rise, roamed a tiny county fair, gone skinny dipping in the river at midnight, ridden an elephant, explored many a sleepy midwestern town, climbed rooftops, roamed the Renaissance Festival, blown bubbles, had countless barbecues with beer and brats and laughter, grown a basil plant, taught high schoolers about writing, taken the State Fair by storm, built and slept in a magical fort for two weeks, and been surrounded by friends and love almost nonstop since June.

This is not to say it’s been all sunshine and joy. I have cried my eyes dry. I have spent hours curled up on the couch, listening to Joni Mitchell and feeling as if my heart was caving in. There have been unexpected moments, moments when the uncertainty is terrifying, moments that remind me of being happily in love, that have knocked the wind out of me. But my friends have been there, picked me up, dusted me off, carried me along, and I could not be more grateful. I have never felt more happy or more myself than when I am with these people. I have laughed until my stomach hurt more times than I can count this summer, and so what could have been three months of wallowing and misery and Ben & Jerry’s hangovers instead became the best three months of my life. I tend to fall in love quickly and easily, to be smitten the second a shaggy haired kid smiles at me, but this summer no boy could’ve held a candle to the amazing women I’ve had around. It’s hard to compete with endless laughter and a fort filled with friends.

I don’t know if there’s a moment when you know you’ve finally grown up. If there is, I haven’t found mine yet. But never have I been more happy with myself and my life and the adult I’m becoming than I have been this summer, and this past year. It’s strange, because it’s also been so hard in so many ways, but despite heartbreak and uncertainty it’s still been the best year of my life.

These really are the happiest days. I’m so excited to see where they take me.