The One in Which I Join the New York Literati and Tell You How Proud I Am.
A case for romanticizing your accomplishments.
I did A Thing. And I am super proud of it. So guess what, good luck to you, because you’re gonna hear about it. A lot. For a while. Hang in there. We’ll get to it.
The other day, on Instagram, I saw one of those pithy blurby meme posts that essentially said: your younger self would be so proud to be doing what you are now. So basically, stop for a second, look around at your life and take one damn second to be proud of it. The first time I really ever had one of those moments, consciously, was a couple years ago.
I had quit teaching, and had — after being tumble dried in an industrial-sized drum filled with broken glass and rocks on LinkedIn for months — found a job copywriting at a full-service marketing agency. In many respects it was a terrible job, but that is another story for another time. The relief I felt at no longer being A Teacher eclipsed navigating the new job’s psychotically toxic environment.
One July morning I ducked into the deli next to the train in search of some breakfast. I rarely eat bagels because they make me need a nap, but it was a Friday, I was v committed to my Grief Diet™ of Sauvignon Blanc and white refined carbs, and I was feeling adventurous. So, I ordered the only breakfast sandwich I’ve ever ordered: everything bagel toasted (WELL DONE burn it ok), with a slice of cheese and well done bacon. No eggs. Eggs are gross.
When paying for the bagel, the guy checking me out asked if I wanted a coffee as well. A very loyal patron of the Think Coffee up the street, I threw caution to the wind, reminded myself of my roots, and said sure why not. It’s summer. Yes, yes, I will have a bodega iced coffee tyvm. I took one sip and
CUT TO:
INT. NYC SUBWAY - MORNING
I am hungover and on the Q train headed into DEEP Brooklyn. In my left hand, in a rigor mortis vice grip, I clasp a brown bag containing my foil-wrapped everything bagel, toasted well-done, because maybe the charcoal will detox me, grease from the bacon and cheese already dampening and polka dotting the bag. My right hand, propped up on the window, holds a coffee that I won't be able to stomach sipping until it’s even more watered down, ice melted, a slick sheen of left-on-the-counter-all-day bodega milk oil-spilled on the surface. With each stop that brings us closer to Sheepshead Bay, my students trickle onto the train, the unspoken rule that you do not talk to Ms. G. until we are in the confines of the classroom, a porous boundary that is the only thing buttressing my ability to keep it together.
I am 22/23/24, teaching 6th and 7th grade English in the ass-end of Brooklyn, and am running on three hours of sleep because I’ve been out somewhere stupid like APT or Max Fish or Thom Bar until 3AM. I am dating/fawning over/being rejected by/pretending to be “friends” with/sleeping with The Hipster. I dislike teaching from pretty much the first minute I step into the classroom and am doing anything and everything outside the hours of 7AM - 3PM to feel like I am LIVING. I am broke and wanting to “make it” and I don’t even really know what that means but I know I want something bigger and bolder. I am happy but unhappy — searching.
Back in the present, that sip of shitty day-old coffee shrugged over some already weeping ice, pulls me up short. For a second I am right back there. And, even though I am not hungover, I am her. I feel that clawing longing and think: Wow. What if she could see me now? What if I could tell her that some day she’d actually get the things that seemed so very far away? That she’d have finally quit teaching; that she’d get to live in a doorman building with in-unit washer and dryer1 AND a balcony; that she’d have just gotten engaged to a man who makes her happy and in whose arms she feels the safest — that she’d be working as a Senior Copywriter on 5th Avenue and had just pitched a client for the first time, with them selecting one of her taglines right there on the call, no edits needed. That even though the way never seemed clear and she didn’t know how it would all come together, it would come together, in its own way, in fits and starts, and there would be no grand reveal, but there would be mile markers and accomplishments.
Nothing is ever perfect, we know this. There are days when my husband and I want to murder each other over dishwasher politics2. In recent years money has been so tight, I have woken up in the middle of the night, on more than one occasion, with my heart racing. My current job, while tolerable, feels like one big gaslighting experiment on most days — the professional embodiment of Will Ferrell’s “I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!” outburst in Zoolander. On the interweb, I write and post, and sometimes it feels like snarking into a big fat void.
More days than not, that first copywriting job was trying and draining. But, in one respect, that didn’t matter because I had still done It. Still managed to have the audacity — the bravery — to leave a twenty year career and find gainful employment, in another industry, inching me closer to what I really wanted, which was to do anything but teach write for a living.
The other night I took another step. And I am really fucking proud of myself.
The other night I read a piece at
’s new nonfiction reading series, The Tortured Blogger’s Department.And it was everything.
It is not always easy to put into words what something means to you. And, it’s not always easy to see — to understand — where you have actually arrived in your life. But, reading a piece (about how, 20 years ago, The Hipster and I crashed a Sex Pistols after party), in a vibey exposed brick Brooklyn distillery, to a packed house, and hearing people laugh (or groan in commiseration) at the words you not only lived, but then wrote, and rewrote, and poured your heart into — that is the stuff dreams are made of.
The first reading I ever attended was
’s Generation Women last June, which you should 1000% attend if you are in NYC. I had heard about it because Cara was reading, and being interested in what she was doing on Substack with her dating stories, I was curious to see what it was all about. I went by myself and said nothing to no one, since as we know, I consider mingling a fate worse than death. But I was immediately hooked. Immediately returned to a sleeping part of myself that craved Literature and Experience and feeling like a bohemian intellectual in a basement bar on the Lower East Side.I watched the seven readers get up there and thought: Do I want to do that? At the moment I was genuinely uncertain. The idea of acting or performing has absolutely no appeal to me. But the idea of sharing my writing to an audience of people who were genuinely interested in hearing stories, that was intriguing. It also scared the shit out of me. I started going to more reading series and the more I went, and the more I heard people talk about their writing or forthcoming books or just sharing of themselves, the more I wanted to be a part of it.
I applied to one reading series that was taking submissions from “emerging” writers. I was not selected, and while that felt rude, I was unbothered because if everyone in LA is writing a screenplay about trying to make it in LA, it seems that everyone in New York is writing personal essays about living and dating in New York. The Scene, like any scene, can be daunting and being passed on left me wondering just how I would get my little toe-hold into a world I was still learning about, but could feel deep in my bones I had a place in.
I have a small internet presence. I don’t have sUbStAnTiAl followings on Instagram or Substack. Sure, it’s more than others, but by “making it” standards, it’s not a large footprint. I am ok with that. The idea of committing myself to making reels or figuring out what amuse bouche the algorithm desires to whet its palate makes me want to, well, commit myself. The people who are here, want to be here and ILYSM you have no idea. Also, I have a full time job, a freelance gig, and an online teaching situationship that I just can’t seem to quit. Any extra mental space I have needs to be about my actual writing and getting my words, not my quips, out there into the world.
Which is all to say, sometimes I really don’t know what I’m doing, but have decided to just keep putting one foot in front of the other and showing up in some capacity, believing that it all adds up and by continuing to take chances on myself, I will keep lily-padding my way to the writing career of my dreams (which basically means not having to work for a Whitman’s Sampler of lunatics to afford my life).
So, when Cara alchemized what began as a casual meet-up of Substack writers into an honest-to-goodness reading series and invited me to be a part of it, I was at once elated and terrified — because watching a goal get realized is both of those things.
I refined my piece, practiced, practiced, and practiced some more and at some point in the lead up realized that I was far more excited than nervous. And, also, that I am a little bit of a ham. The evening was magical and I am still buzzing. The venue, the decor, our hostess, my fellow readers, the New York sours… 14/10 couldn’t have asked for a better time. I wasn’t sure if I’d like reading my work to an audience. Lol. Ok. Sign me up, invite me over, give me an overturned crate in Union Square. Because here we go. Seeing the videos of me reading is a little surreal because I don’t think of myself in that context. But the best part of watching it is seeing how much fun I’m having.
I’m seeing a lot on Instagram about “romanticizing your life”3 but I’ve been thinking more about romanticizing your accomplishments. About taking that far-sighted moment to move the thing a little farther away from you to really SEE it. And when I take my sentient experiencing of the event out of the equation, step back, and look at the picture of the woman standing in front of the mic, in a black dress and ripped jean jacket, exposed brick behind her, people listening attentively, I am able to say:
Damn. That is so fucking cool.
I did that. I made that happen. I am fortunate and have had help and nudges and people, like Cara and my best friend and my parents and my husband, who believe in me, and for that I am effusively grateful. But, that’s me and I did the damn thing. And I am really, really proud of myself.
So what lordabove is the point? Brag about it, own it, don’t shut up about it. Whether its getting a workout in while your kid naps or building an empire, romanticize the fuck out of your accomplishments. Because whatever it is, you did the damn thing and that is pure magic and you deserve to be proud of all of it.
Hi, My name is Erin and the thing I’m not going to shut up about is that I just entered my New York City Writer Era and I cannot wait to see what’s ahead.
Your turn.
A little snippet for you… For context: I am 22 and in lurveee with The Hipster (who is the man I am talking about in this post). This story is about us crashing a Sex Pistols after-party at the Hotel Chelsea and me becoming even more infatuated with him as a result — even though he is one giant red flag. This is also the first chapter of my collection of essays, Ugh. Anyway., which will be released later this year.
Love I had always believed in. In-unit laundry was the stuff dreams were made of.
I believe he lets it sit too long after the dishes are clean. He believes I load it with the precision of a squirrel in a k-hole. Both are true.
Lighting a candle and putting on some vibey music when you shower, putting an edible flower and stripey straw in your coffee, eating sitting down with your meal on a plate instead of over the sink snarfing it down like a trash panda — I don’t effing know something like that.
Go on with your bad squirrel k hole self and tell the world everything you want to say. We want to hear it all.
woo hoo!! This is inspiring - thank you!