My heart feels so full and wonderful right now, like it's a freshly blown balloon made out of hopes, dreams and the lifelong desire to become relevant in the field that matters to you.
Quick back story: I haven't been writing. At all. For those who care, or accidentally stumble upon TDOS, my last written expression is a half paragraph about the okayafrica festival. To put this into perspective, I have written more impassioned and thought provoking Trader Joe's grocery lists since then. (The Candy Cane JoJo's ice cream is really quite something.) At Thanksgiving, my mom, various cousins and friends all asked why I had stopped writing. My brother recently told me it made him sad to know that I no longer did the one thing that I had done for myself, regardless of whether or not I had a job (or even an internship) at a respected publication or had people reading my work, period. I have been told that it doesn't matter if I am blogging, scratching away on a napkin, or jotting down thoughts in a Lisa Frank notebook; I should be writing. Doesn't matter if it's good, if it's bad, or if it is documented proof that I am slowly going insane from hanging out with children all day (and there is the simplest reason for my lack of inspiration or willingness to create; cash does, in fact, rule everything around me, and being a nanny, while fulfilling and lucrative, wears the FUCK out of you). I moved to New York to someday be Touré. The white, Jewish, female Touré. Because I love soul music. Because I love R&B. Because I can happily produce 1,000 words on why I still, at the age of almost 25, can relate, in a completely not ironic way, to a Mariah Carey song. Because, after a satisfying, successful and resume building college career at Boston's best entertainment weekly, after running the best damn soul, R&B and slow jams radio program this side of the Mississippi, and after managing a staff of writers and photographers for one of the best college radio station's websites in the country, I knew I had something to offer. I had sat with legends, face to face, and asked them what made them tick, I had spoken to my heroes across time zones and oceans on the telephone, picking their brains and trying my best not to embarrass myself, and most importantly, I had learned from the best mentors, editors and writers around. I had, at the young age of 22, accomplished things I never thought I could. I had taken every opportunity thrown my way, worked ungodly hours, utilized the tools given me, and spent every waking minute working, and loving it.
And since then, I haven't done a fraction of any of that. Part of it is circumstance, I graduated at one of the worst times ever to try and find a job, of any kind, the industry in which I wanted to go into isn't what it used to be, I have an ego, but not that big of an ego to pursue music criticism, the music I care about isn't as fairly represented as it should be, I don't want to compromise my tastes, I'm a cry baby, I'm a girl and the only people I know who are successfully being published in this field are boys, boys that once were under my editorship in college, who I would like to say, I am so very proud of, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, I'm too busy, I need money, I am not good enough, I am only one in a million. And of course, and most importantly, I gave up.
I admit this. And I will also admit that I have made plenty of excuses, reasons and justifications over the past year and a half too, but this is the first time I have said (or typed) out loud that I gave up. Threw in the towel. Blew it. Dropped any and all balls. But that's OK. Because I knew that someday my desire to talk shit, spout my unwanted and unwarranted opinions (which are totally right, by the way) and to blast superfluous blog posts about Charlie Wilson and Crystal Waters into the void of the internet would come back. I knew it would. My family and friends did too. Because the only thing that matches the amount of indignant self righteous taste making bullshit I have within me, is the support of my loved ones. No sarcasm, no jokes, no goofs. It's true. And I am grateful.
The only thing was, I didn't know how or when it would come back. But that's the whole crux of the biscuit isn't it? Writer's block, periods of depression, bird flu and Athlete's foot all have their own time tables, and no amount of tough love, Target brand foot cream or naps will make it end. I knew this, so I waited. I abandoned TDOS (I'm sorry to like, 2 people), I stopped applying for writing industry jobs, stopped networking, and waited. I waited almost a year. And then, one day (yesterday actually), the switch flipped.
My dear friend, co-blogger and music soul mate Ben sent me this email last night, at 6:30 PM:
I didn't believe it. I made Ben text me a picture of my name in the appendix. I then tried to Google my name and the book together, but all that came up was my LinkedIn profile. Trife. And when I just tried searching for a list of pieces included in this year's appendix, I came across this:
Let's hear it for New York! While there is always a large number of critics in NYC who make it into the pages of BMW*, this is a true banner year for New Yorkers in the book. So, we have an extra special two day extravaganza of writers, henceforth named The Best Music Writing 2010 Thanksgiving Week Double Header:
Monday, November 22, 2010
7pm, Housing Works Cafe
126 Crosby Street New York, NY 1001
Free (please bring used books to donate)
Hosted by Guest Editor Ann Powers and Series Editor Daphne Carr
Readings by 2010 Contributors: Raquel Cepeda, Robert Christgau, Sasha Frere-Jones, Lola Ogunnaike, Starrene Rhett, Jody Rosen, Alex Ross, and Greg Tate
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Free, 7pm, SouthPaw
125 Fifth Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11217
Hosted by Guest Editor Ann Powers and Series Editor Daphne Carr
Readings by 2010 Contributors: Nitsuh Abebe, Jon Caramanica, Jason Fine, Maura Johnston, Evie Nagy, Tavia Nyong’o, Christopher R. Weingarten
GOD FUCKING DAMN IT. Talk about being oblivious. Instead of being in a car for 14 hours on the way to Chicago, I could have been hobnobbing with Robert Christgau and Sasha Frere-Jones. Thanksgiving dinner this year was good, but not that good (with respect to my aunt's ginger cheesecake that she made just for me, of course). To be fair, they didn't contact me to let me know I was selected, and I assume this is because I wasn't published in the book, only included in the appendix. Which is totally fine, I just wish I wasn't a bonehead and had followed up.
My name is in a book. My name, and the title of a piece I wrote, and believed in, is mentioned among a list of luminaries and recommended reading. Now allow me to be self indulgent and congratulatory for one quick, all caps second: SOMETHING I WROTE IS CONSIDERED NOTABLE BY PEOPLE WHO MATTER. I AM LISTED AS SOMETHING WORTH READING, ALONG WITH PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE REQUIRED READING. I AM MENTIONED IN A BOOK ABOUT THINGS BEING GOOD. A BOOK WITH THE WORD "BEST" IN THE TITLE.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to celebrate.