in which i write fiction

this summer, I found myself in the midst of a quarter-life crisis (only a couple of months prior to my senior year of college -- how cliche). I was living alone in New York City, working very closely with the fashion industry, as I did the summer before that, and suddenly, the city of my dreams was no longer this magical place that would make me, but rather, overcrowded, grimy, disgustingly humid, much too large, rude, and most of all, awfully lonely*.

and, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I did not want to work in or with fashion or beauty. Not at all. I found the industry cold and fake and pretentious and shallow, and that's just not who I am as a person. That is not to say that some in the fashion industry aren't incredibly creative and artistic and insightful, but in my experience, it's just an industry that will knock you down to your knees and never look back. And it's all well and good to endure it if it is what you truly want to do, but for me, it just isn't.

I knew what I wanted to do, of course. I wanted to write. I always have. But writing -- well, it seemed so hard, so unemployable (and here is where my logic fails me, because it's not like the fashion industry is any easier, really).

so in a moment of panic, I turned to my dad. He came to visit me, and we chatted over dinner at an Italian restaurant in the West Village. I admitted to him that, well, I hated the direction my life was going in. Hated it. I felt terrified that I would be trapped in this misery forever. Thankfully, he was more than understanding.

"so what is it that you really want to do?" he asked.

"write."

"about what?"

"um, I don't know. Mental illness. People with interesting stories**"

and then he threw me a curveball.

"what about novels? You used to love writing novels."

I froze. "Um, sure. I guess."

here's the truth: Novels were the reason I wanted to be a writer in the first place, ever since I read that first Harry Potter book in the third grade. By age 12, I used to lock myself in the upstairs room, typing away furiously, and I even completed a couple of novels. I wish I could recover them, because although I am sure the writing was atrocious, I remember the stories, and I think they were quite good. I'd love to revise them. Or I suppose maybe I could try rewriting them...?

but somewhere along the line, I guess around the time that I started hating my body and doubting every last thing about myself, I figured that writing fiction would never happen for me. It's too hard, I thought. I'll never get a novel published. I guess I won't be a writer, but a journalist, instead.

lame***

and then, recently, I decided I was bored with my life and that I would give novel-writing another go...

...and all over again, just like that, I fell in love. It was incredibly difficult at first. I didn't know where to start. I went through periods of intense writer's block, something which I hardly ever face when writing nonfiction. But now...I cannot stop writing. The words are pouring out of me, and it's kind of the best feeling in the world. I want to be a fiction writer. And I know it's going to suck and that I will be rejected over and over and over and over and that I will second-guess myself, but man, I swear there is nothing more satisfying for me than writing fiction. I can't believe I ever forgot this.

also, I am now looking into possible creative writing MFA programs to apply to in the future (like, two to three years from now), because I think that I might want to teach creative writing at a collegiate level someday. Who would've thought?

...and this concludes my most footnoted post, ever.


*I don't mean to diss the city. It really is a fabulous place -- it's just obviously not the place for me.


**my college admissions essay was precisely about this, about how much I wanted to write about people with amazing stories. It was based on someone that I admired very much at the time, although unfortunately this person mistreated me horribly two years ago and never showed any remorse and chose to play the blame game instead, so that's that, I guess. Also, I don't quite know how I accidentally "fell" into fashion over the past few years -- I suppose I just thought it was what I "should" do. But it's not me.

***that is not to say that I do not enjoy writing nonfiction, because I do. I love it -- as long as it is on a topic or story I'm interested in.