Starting Over
As some of you know, last June PDX Magazine folded after just four and a half years. To many (including some of the people employed by the monthly mag) this came as no great shock. Sure, the economy was tanking and print media was faring even worse, but PDX Magazine had a certain trashy scrappiness that seemed to flag it as the first to go. As the editor, I was disappointed, but not surprised. Instead of crying over the pretty but never-to-be-printed June issue (if you’d like to see it, click HERE), I simply orchestrated as graceful an exit as possible, packed up my belongings, and hit the proverbial streets. That was the easy part. The hard part? Figuring out where to go.
I was fortunate enough to have a project that demanded my attention. The Moon Guide had been eating up my spare minutes for months already, but I was way behind thanks to the heaps of work the magazine required each month. I was looking forward to diving into the book completely and I giggled with the inkling that I might just “knock that thing out in a month or so.” Boy, was I stupid.
It took me a while to get over the numbness I had employed as a coping mechanism while serving as editor-in-chief at PDX. The months prior to the magazine closure had been filled with so many ups and downs that I eventually decided it was in my best interest to avoid feeling joy or sorrow over anything. What’s that? Sam Adams says he loves the magazine and wants to do an interview? Meh. We got a huge ad contract? Sigh, I’ll find a page for it. We can’t print the February issue? Eh. I’ve never liked February all that much anyway. Call me Spock, but in those last several months, engaging my emotions felt frivolous and dangerous.
Immediately following the closure of the magazine (and I mean hours later) I was quietly grinning. Like so many other publications, we had been hanging on by a thread for months and our creative team had gotten very creative about how to fill those pages. My assistant editor, Jeremy, and I wrote nearly all of the articles, calendars, and listings with the help of an intern and one or two freelancers who were willing to work in trade (or wait patiently for pay). Furthermore, understanding that print media as I had come to know it was a dying cat, I was also spending a lot of time writing blog posts and trying to finagle trade agreements and sponsorship events. I was attending every media invite I could make it to, even the stupid ones (and if you work in the media, you know there are A LOT of stupid ones), in hopes that I might acquire partnerships. I was answering epic, self-aggrandizing emails from English majors who “loved the magazine, and were hoping to write for it.” I was learning about outdoor sports so I could write an article on kayaking. Truth be told, I was averaging about 10,000 words a month and not one of them went in the book.
So, suddenly I had all the free time in the world to finish the book, get in shape, visit with friends, or hell, learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons, right? Imagine my surprise when day after day I woke to find I couldn’t write a thing. It was as if my words got packed up along with all those PDX Magazine paperweights and pens. The less I wrote the more I hated myself and the more I hated myself, the more I found it impossible to even look at the computer.
Meanwhile, friends and colleagues were emailing me and calling me to check in and make plans. “We need to have lunch!” they’d breezily declare, “It’s on me!” “Let’s have happy hour and talk about your book! I’ll buy since you’re unemployed.” My email box was filled with invitations to eat, drink, commiserate, celebrate, and in one case, vandalize a completely deserving house. But I couldn’t bring myself to accept any of the invitations, as exciting as they may have seemed. In fact, the more excited I was about something, the more the hives began creeping up my swiftly expanding midriff. It’s not like I was enjoying being a homebody. My home office felt like a hot, sticky prison and most days my computer just mocked me with its smug blank screen and its impatient blinking cursor.
Slowly, the invitations stopped. The guy from the deli down the street forgot my name. The bartender at my favorite bar forgot my drink and then got a new job. The unemployed friends who beckoned me to join them for rafting trips and mani-pedis got new jobs and moved on. My restaurant gift certificates expired and my theatre tickets went unclaimed. For months, I simply sat at my computer and begged the words to come. Eventually, I got the work done, but it was like extracting 15 pounds of pea gravel from a full-body road rash.
Once the book was finished I imagined myself throwing open the doors and declaring, “Hello, world! I’m back!” I would toss off my comfy Chuck Taylors and slouchy jeans, dust off my stilettos, and go dancing. But at my best, I just poked a toe out the door and then called for pizza. At my worst, I went to a party, got too nervous to socialize, and drank an entire bottle of vodka.
To make matters worse, I wasn’t sleeping. As if the undefined daytime hours weren’t maddening enough, I now had a dozen or so unfulfilled nighttime hours to contend with. One night, while re-reading Robert Green’s 48 Laws of Power, I stumbled upon the 18th law, “Do Not Build Fortresses to Protect Yourself – Isolation is Dangerous.” I cried and put the book away, certain that ignorance felt better.
Rather than acknowledge the growing fear that I was becoming obsolete, I chose to reprioritize. So, I couldn’t write an 800-word article, but I could cook. Cooking became my saving grace because it was so much more predictable. I didn’t need to be clever or important; I simply needed ingredients and time. Suddenly, I was becoming a 1960s housewife, making Beef Carbonnade from scratch, while doing five loads of laundry and tackling the mold in the bathroom.
Creating these elaborate meals gave me a sense of accomplishment, but it too came with a side order of crazy. If the roommates showed up late for dinner, I would panic, certain that everything would be ruined because now the asparagus was cold and the chicken was overcooked. Dry pork chops made me feel powerless. A gummy risotto left me feeling like a fraud. Once, I left a pot roast in for too long, and when it came out dry and flavorless, I tossed the whole thing and went to bed angry at myself.
I kept waiting to hit rock bottom, certain that when I did, I would rise from the ashes with a new sense of purpose. Every time I snuck out of a media event early, sober, and beleaguered by the inevitable question, “So, what are you doing these days?” I told myself that “this too shall pass.” But when? And How?
Sure, I was engaging in a powerful cycle of self-defeating behavior. Over and over I would say to myself, “You’re better than this! Get off your ass!” So I would brainstorm and concoct a new fabulous plan. Then I would excitedly tell my closest friends (and anyone who would listen) about the amazing new me. These moments were chock full of statements like, “I’m going to do something completely different” and “all bets are off.” But time and again, the moment I put the pen to the page, I would freeze up. Then I would have to go through the complicated process of telling myself that I didn’t really like that fabulous plan to begin with.
One inherent danger in this industry is that you are only as good as you are willing to allow yourself to be. No one is going to be a better advocate for you than you, and really, no one else is going to put your fingers on the keyboard and command you to write. No one else is going to submit your work for you, write queries, or meet a potential editor for coffee. You still have to show up for work, even if showing up simply means putting on your underwear and pouring yourself a cup of coffee before sitting down to write. Furthermore, once you do show up, you have to believe in yourself or at least trick yourself into believing that you are capable of completing the small steps. There’s a huge difference between, “I’m not certain I can do this justice” and “I’m just gonna finish this paragraph and see how it goes.”
Another intrinsic danger is that solitude is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I’m still trying to figure that one out. As a writer, I fall into that “absolute observer” trap that many of us do. I watch. I listen. I scrutinize and scribble down the details as I walk away. It’s all well and good when you are writing a story, but it doesn’t lend itself well to actually living a life.
So, what have I learned? Honestly, I am still figuring that out. Peeking out the front door each day and stepping into the sun is still astonishingly hard. Chucking off the fear in favor of having fun still feels scary and awkward. I have considered having two t-shirts made, one that says, “I used to be fun” and another that says, “I used to be smart.” (I wish I were kidding.) I figured that I could wear these interchangeably, rather than be forced to explain that I am just in a funk, but then, of course, I’d have to explain what happened.
Instead, I suppose that getting up each day, putting on my underpants, and pouring myself some coffee will have to do. I have to start over again, learn from my mistakes and forgive myself for them. I also have to start allowing myself small (and big) victories. Too often, I downplay my successes for fear that I will get complacent or cocky, but doing so tends to make me fear success. I call my inner critics “the alligators” and when the alligators get chompy, they’re busy telling me that I only got that job because I was in the right place at the right time or I got chosen for that award because there wasn’t much competition.
Starting over means shoving out the alligators. I have to be kind to myself and allow myself to feel okay about that. I have to say out loud that I am good at what I do and believe it (which is the hard part). And ultimately, I have to allow myself to fail, because one failure does not a hack writer make. A photographer may take 600 photos in one day and if he ends up with one great one, he considers the day a success.
Maybe I’ll write an article today or maybe I’ll invent a new recipe for mac & cheese. Lately, in order to get up each day, I have to tell myself that it’s less about what I do and more about how I do it.
