naked ambition

A week ago or so, I had my monthly full-scale panic attack about my life. It started because, since I'm trying to decide if I want to keep doing what I'm doing, I started looking around on the internet for what other ways I might bring in money while I write. It culminated in me crying a lot and wailing about, you know, LIFE. Stuart and I talked it through, like we always do, but the next day he sent me an email that I've been returning to since then. In the intervening week, there's been some bad news (taxes! OMG!) and some good news (new job possibilities! OMG!) but through a lot of my waking hours, the things Stuart said have stuck by me like some invisible shield of faith and goodwill. Which, really, is the best thing ever (BTE).

So I'm sharing the email here, in its entirety. If it was so revelatory and useful to me, consider this a public service announcement to anyone else who's trying to wrap a functioning model of life around an artistic goal. Most of the time, I blog here because something I say might have an impact on something you're doing. This is, for the same reason, well worth reading. You reflective, ambitious types, click on.

"It's possible I can't really say anything more than we said last night, but I wanted to try anyway.

You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself. I feel like if you wanted to be President, or Editor of the NYT, you'd be putting even more pressure on yourself. The greater the distance you perceive between where you are and where you want to be, the more pressure you'll put on yourself.

Compare someone who wants to be an astronaut and someone who wants to manage a car dealership. The person who wants to be an astronaut has the more impressive ambition. They want more. They're reaching for the stars. They're hungry for a rare success. They're five years old. Skip forward thirty years and our five-year-old IS the person who wants to manage a car dealership. Circumstances change, focuses narrow, responsibilities fall onto shoulders. With the passing of youth comes the death of youthful ambition and the application of self to more mundane, immediate matters. Finding a job, meeting the rent…

Getting a promotion at work to improve your wages and your quality of life becomes the ambition that's right in front of you and it's realistic, so why not?

But the thing is… it's not compulsory, and that narrowing of focus can only take place if the person themselves actively forces themselves to do it. It's your life. There's nothing stopping you going to school in aeronautical engineering, taking a masters in metallurgy, getting a job at Boeing, joining the Air Force reserves, getting your pilot's license, applying for a transfer to the space design department and applying to NASA.

Metaphorically.

People become astronauts. It happens. It's possible.

The way the world looks at ambitions like that is through a hazy mist of half-thought-through probabilities and fear.

If someone says "I want to be X" people instantly do a little calculation in their heads - of how likely or realistic it is, whether in their opinion the person will achieve the goal. And with every obstacle or challenge between the realization of an ambition and its achievement – fear of failure, difficulty, failure, inadequacy, any and all of the little things. Not being so invested in the idea that you're prepared to work as hard as it requires… the goals get reset. And as the goals get reset, ambitions change, become less impressive to others, and as a result people become less proud of them. Pride in their own ambition diminishes.

We've all had this. We all start out thinking we will never compromise and then we find that life is more or less impossible without compromising a little. I wanted to fly planes, and I was an asthmatic teenager with glasses. I was a cocky student, believing I would solve the world's energy crisis. I shifted and changed and my ambitions changed with my progressing life. I'm a big jumble of them now. But I like being a jumble of ambitions.

You decided journalism wasn't for you. You decided magazine journalism wasn't for you. You've always been positive in your steps. This makes you different. Others are directed… you direct. Sure, you may have had your hand forced at [name of last job redacted], but you knew you didn't want to keep working there!

I can't imagine you working in an office, baby. Other people, these people you're comparing yourself to unfairly, may earn a lot of money, but are they satisfied? Is that what their ambitions are for? They're doing what they're doing, and the only time at which their achievements become relevant in comparison is if you want what they have, or your ambitions are the same as theirs, if you're saying, 'Look at that, I want that. They have what I want.'

So after all that, I say:

You are secure. If you go for your ambitions it will not end in bankruptcy, debt, or death by rabid badgers.

That education and work experience you have is firmly in place. It's banked. It's not going anywhere. It's insurance, sure, but like any asset, you choose when to use it. You are not obliged to get an office/publishing/slaveylackey job just because you can.

You are free and young and intelligent and, if I may take the opportunity to say so, very pretty.

You have your ambitions and they are fine and high and admirable, and because it's you that has them, they are utterly, utterly achievable."

from there to here

A few months back, I was head-hunted about a job at a foundation. Right before my trip to England, I went to the interviews, took the copy-editing test, and did my best. In the end, when the job was offered (while I was on vacation), I turned it down. Although the stability and organization of the work environment appealed to me, the job was essentially project-managing the creation of literature for the foundation and there was no writing involved. As a step, it wasn't up. It was sideways.

Two days after turning down the job and returning to my then-current job, my boss and I sat down for the conversation that led to my departure. It was scary but ultimately exhilirating, and I had a sneaking suspicion it was the right thing to do.

But in those scary moments, I couldn't believe - couldn't believe - that I had just turned down a job. My best friend, Erin, had this Bichon Frise, Niki. Niki was, like lots of Bichons, a big weenie. Every now and then, she'd run out the front door, euphoric at her triumphant escape from the house. Ten minutes later, she'd be at the back door, howling raggedly to be LET BACK IN WHERE IT'S SAFE.

I was Niki. I wanted to call the job that wasn't right for me and beg them to take me in, bring me in from the cold scary place where the signs are telling me to fucking make my own way, already, and do what I want to do.

This new job shouldn't need to confirm to me that I did the right thing, I'm doing the right thing. I should know that already and if you pressed me, I do. I know that each week it gets easier to sit down and write and that's a good thing. Each week my late-night freak-outs where I cry on Stuart get less frequent, and that's good, too. So I already knew I was on the right path.

But I wasn't expecting the right job, especially when I wasn't pounding pavement like a maniac looking for it yet. I was sending out a couple resumes a week, to only the jobs I wouldn't turn down, and this was one of them. Teaching, in an afterschool literacy program, for exactly the amount of time I was hoping to dedicate to something challenging and worthwhile. And then something challenging and worthwhile came along. And I start in September - the Powers That Be even granting me a few more weeks of intensive writing before I shift my schedule. It's difficult for me to believe, but it's what I need, exactly when I need it, just when I was worried I was asking too much.

For all my pragmatism (WHAT, it's IN there SOMEWHERE) there's a part of me that still firmly believes that if your goal is worthy, if you have a dream that you deserve and have earned, then what you need will come to you when you need it. The universe will conspire to help you, as Paulo Coehlo would put it. It's soppy as far as convictions go but I'm glad to keep hold of it for one more round at least.

And I'm glad I didn't run to the back door, howling for safety.

give yourselves a cookie

Do you know what's really nice?

You guys. I mean, you're niiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

Isn't that a nice thing to hear on Friday? Well, it's true. You're all very nice. I wrote a very difficult, complicated and terrifying post about leaving my stable 9-to-5 job for a life of writing and worthwhile part-time work.

And do you know what you guys did? Go back and read it. You left me all these really wonderful, supportive comments about how you had every faith in me and that I'd find the right balance.

And you know, my parents, Stuart, my darling friends - they know me, and support every thing I do with enthusiasm and reality checks and glasses of wine toasted to new beginnings. I know them, and I can pay back to them my gratitude with my love and friendship every day, and I do. But I wanted to thank you, because you guys only know me from this medium, and yet you poured out your encouragement and ideas.

So, thank you. I have a lot to say about the new job but right now, there's a coffee and some writing in front of me.

Enjoy the cookie.

wherein I show you lots of pictures and sneakily bury the lede

Tonight we went on a long walk to dinner. We were headed for a Brazilian place on 36th Ave that we hadn't tried yet. On the way we talked about books, specifically, what Stuart finished reading today - Scott Westerfeld's Uglies. Then, we passed this sign. Right as we were talking about The Smoke. This is hilarious to you if you've read the books and nigh-incomprehensible if you haven't. I've weighed the pros and cons of sharing it with you regardless and decided to take that chance.

We laughed a lot and on the way back from dinner, I took a picture. It is quite possibly the dullest photograph I've ever taken but there you have it. I like to start off with small things, nothing too exciting or earth-shaking, just a funny literary joke.

The adorable dog brigade of Astoria was out in full force tonight. Every wide-eyed tail-wagging pup that could possibly tug on my puppy ovaries was out there doing its bit for the powerful Dog PR Machine. Also out in full force was the Old People Charm Me brigade, since on our way back to the apartment - laden with popcorn and soda for our movie night - the Italian-American Community of Queens was serenading the neighborhood in Athens Plaza with a snappy litle waltz, and boy, did the snappy OAPs come out to dance.

It was like watching one of those music box figurines, the way the whole crowd slowly but precisely waltzed around each other, not a dame or gent under 60 on that plaza. I must have looked crazy, grinning my face off at the shuffling dancers. Stuart could not be enticed to take me for a whirl but promises it was only a momentary lapse; at many other times in our life, he assures me, he will be able to lead onto a plaza and pretend we know how to waltz. Heck, maybe we'll even learn to waltz.

This next anecdote serves the purpose of making you feel better, you New Yorkers, who don't always take advantage of every single bitty free thing the city has to offer. On Monday night, I got to Bryant Park 45 minutes after the lawn opened for seating for their showing of Charade, and this is what faced me. By the time Stuart arrived at 7:45, I was getting sick of hearing the power-drunk security guard yell at people to STAY OUT OF EMERGENCY LANE as they bodily blocked people and thrust the sign in their faces. But I'd worked so hard to get us a halfway decent spot and Stuart had brought Chipotle!

So we sat down and ate. And then stared around. And then the conversation basically went:

"So, I just spent two hours here."
"Want to go home?"
"Totally."

So we did. We went home and played Book Lovers Trivial Pursuit and drank our Cabernet out of real wine glasses and not plastic cups, sitting in comfy chairs, and if we are old, then so be it, but I for one am willing to stand up and declare that Monday nights at my otherwise adored Bryant Park? Not worth it, peeps.

And this last picture, well, this was us tonight. As if Stuart's stellar professional review on Monday wasn't good news enough for the Brigouras household, today I got offered a job that I want, a part-time job that starts in September and is basically perfect for me - the right mixture of challenging and engaging and worthwhile, clocking in at 17 hours a week and netting me slightly above the minimum I decided I needed to earn from part-time work to contribute fairly to our household. Oh, yes, there was a good reason for dinner and a movie tonight, kids.

Details, as they say, to follow.

you want honest? here's honest

I woke up today full of leftover ennui from Wednesday. I don't know why. I wrote for three days this week, solid chunks of two to five hours writing. That's what I said I was going to do, wasn't it? I said I was going to enjoy these few months of paid vacation to write like hell and place my faith in the future, right?

On Wednesday, I wanted to take it all back. Nevermind that I'd just done what I said I was going to do. I felt like I hated it, hated every minute of slow and tedious creation and self-reliance. Thursday gave me a break with a slew of errands that couldn't wait any longer and Biscuit's lasik surgery to get him home from, plus dinner with friends in Chinatown. Thursday was a respite with things to do, to accomplish, outside the house.

Today, the crushing ennui and self-doubt, she is back for a special Friday appearance. I woke up with a house that needs some tending - nothing serious, dishes to do and clothes to put away. I had a light breakfast and stared at the new picture frames we ordered and realized they're all wrong, too many 2x3 openings and we don't have enough small pictures and talk about transferring emotions, but suddenly the effort to get those three picture frames filled and hung was like everything in my life - too complicated, too self-reliant, too creative.

I wasn't planning on filling and hanging the goddamned picture-frames today anyway. It was just the act of evaluating them that made me want to crawl into bed and sleep for another twelve hours. It's when I want to go bed right after I've woken up that I know I'm in trouble. Sleep is my ostrich-in-the-sand tactic.

Why do I want to do this to myself? Why did I agree with myself a few weeks (months?) ago on this crazy scheme? Why don't I just drop all this bullshit and go study to become a librarian so I can always have a job, sweet merciful employment complete with someone else telling me what to do? WHY?

Can I just give up and say nevermind, I don't want to be a writer, UNCLE. Can I fold? No, see, I can't fold. Because I've got all this pride that keeps me from folding, which is probably a good thing but I hate it right now, and I hate that I know what I have to do, which is be productive through the maelstorm of ennui and negativity and self-doubt. I have to keep saying to myself (and other concerned parties) that yes, I'm unemployed, and no, that's not the end of the world, and yes, I'm writing every day instead of working for someone else.

It'd help a little if I believed that was the best thing to do. It'd help if I didn't feel like I was letting everyone and myself down by switching gears this abruptly. It'd help if squeezing words out every day felt more satisfying than this, if they really erased the questions and the ostrich impulse.

I guess it'd help if I knew where this was taking me.

addendum: because I love all of you and don't want anyone to worry needlessly (especially those of you related to me), I figured I'd let you know I'm dragging this laptop and this brain to the Rose Reading Room and seeing if all the marble and intellect can calm my worried mind enough for those good rare words to slip out onto the page. Also, it gets me away from this apartment that I adore too much to pace around with this foul humor. All Big Questions will just have to wait.

monday

This is how I rewarded myself on this cool, gray afternoon for two hours spent writing. It may not sound like a lot but I didn't check my email once and I only got up a few times, to refresh a water glass or answer the phone [I only answer when I can just tell by telepathy that it's my parents calling].

So, the writing. It is going slowly, and well. I think it's like running - every day, your endurance for the quietness and concentration gets better. So last week had a lot of interruptions but a good solid six to eight hours over the course of the week. This week has started out better, and I'm proud of that. Because this is scary, you guys. Two months or so where my only obligation is to keep up my freelancing gigs and write, write, write? After this, I'll have to find part-time work and I accept and rejoice in that, but once I've made the decision to take this break as a godsend and write, well, damnit, that means I have to write like I've never written before and pray that the learning I'm doing will only benefit me along the way.

So today, I wrote and then gave myself a cup of tea and three cookies as a reward. I was also going to meet friends in Brooklyn for a Manu Chao concert but the skies, they are threatening and heavy with rain.

Which means I should move my caboose and get to the grocery store - why ruin the quiet satisfaction of a day well spent by ordering takeout? No, no - it's tacos [recipe being swiped from Deb] and guacamole for us. Now if I just had confidence that I could pick out avocados to save my life. Oh, well, one life lesson at a time.

Today's life lesson: tea is better with cookies.

ten things

things that have been hard lately:

1. Feeling like the world, and the people in it, are passing me by when in fact they're just doing what they've always done - it's me that's slowed down.

2. Remembering that each day does not start in the red simply because yesterday was bad. Each day starts afresh and if I accomplish something I set out to do, then it was a good day. If I did not, it was a bad day, and tomorrow is a new day.

3. My chair. If I don't wear pants, I stick to it. This is uncomfortable, especially with sunburn.

4. The apartment always has something that I could be doing, but I am resisting housecleaning for more than a few minutes each day because it's too tempting to spend all day doing that simply because it's productive.

5. Shutting off my brain and its worries so that I can write.

things that have been good lately:

1. Going to the beach on Monday, even with the resulting sunburn.

2. Realizing that I have the gift of a few months of subsidized writing, months where I don't HAVE to throw myself at a part-time job if I don't want to, months that I may not have again for a long time. Months that are a gift to myself, to write write write.

3. Having friends and family that prop me up even when I am knocking myself down.

4. Knowing that I DO have the resources to make this a success, even if they seem like they're buried under dirty dishes and laziness.

5. Air-conditioning.

In short, this is all much more work than I ever thought it would be, even when I thought I'd be prepared. I must make a mental note that parenting is going to have the same effect - even when you think you're ready, you've got no idea.

flying lessons for penguins

I've been differently-employed for three days now. On Monday, I tasted my newfound workday freedom by getting on a bus bound for Rhode Island, to have a delicious lunch with my parents before borrowing my dad's truck (look I know it's an SUV but truck is less syllables and less painful) to drive back down to New York, so that Stuart and I could have the car for the two weeks around his performance.

On Tuesday I woke up determined to fight off the hounds of laziness, and I spent the morning doing the necessary administrative tasks on my to-do list and the afternoon running errands.

And then yesterday I sort of crashed and burned. I tried to spend the morning working on creative writing, but the dull constant headache that plagued me meant that every 30 minutes spent writing was followed by another 30 minutes sitting quietly on the office couch trying to fight back the headache. I even watched an hour of daytime television and then felt terrible about myself and it and the world because DAMN, it's not like it helped the headache.

Of course, it wasn't until about 5 PM that I told Shana about the headaches (that I'd fought off Tuesday as well) and she, accustomed to my idiocy when it comes to my gentle addiction, reminded me that perhaps I simply hadn't had my caffeine intake and BOY, did I go suck down three cups of PG Tips right then and there or WHAT. I've learned the lesson and today has started with a tall iced coffee and a cup of tea and it isn't even 10 AM yet.

All this is by way of explaining something - the variability of this newfound freedom is doing my head in. Somewhat literally, yesterday. I woke up today and had a shower and some toast and sweet caffeine and here I sit at the computer.

On a superficial level, this is just like my days have been for years. But do not let the computer, the toast, the caffeine, and the morning shower fool you. This is nothing like the life I've grown accustomed to. Working at an office - someone else's - removes a certain element of choice, of freedom, of self-direction. You're there, on the clock (yes, you, reading from work) and while it may be boring, or mind-numbing, it's DEFINED. And by and large, you do the same thing every day because it has been asked of you by someone else, and you chose to be there doing things required of you by someone else. Which sounds pretty good right about now, right? Well, this is nothing like that.

This? I'm like a penguin that got thrown from a plane, told by others that heck, you've got wings, use them! And the penguin (that's me) suddenly has this vast array of CHOICE, this sink-or-swim, this need to assert independence and make the call. I could sit here doing nothing all day, or I could do something for myself and basically no one else.

It's a mindfuck. Yesterday, several times, I almost called Stuart to just ask him to tell me what to DO. But the thing is, I know what to do. I have to make lists of things I want to accomplish, and then accomplish them. It sounds like work, work for other people who pay you to do the work, but it's not.

Perhaps these truths are self-evident to those of you who have gone before me. And I know, as you will doubtless tell me, that I will find my groove, I'll eventually pull my wings away from my terrified body and start flapping them even though yes, I know, if you threw a penguin from a plane it would have about twenty seconds of going ohshitohshitohshit before SPLAT. I know this about penguins.

Where was I? Right, the learning curve. There is a learning curve that I am standing at the bottom of, and the things I need to learn are self-direction, self-motivation, and OTHER THINGS THAT START WITH SELF.

So I'm determined - and armed with caffeine - to make today better than yesterday, to remember how crappy it felt to not know what to do. I'm determined to be one step ahead of where I was yesterday, every day, which isn't something I've ever done when working for someone else, where the best thing to do is really the same thing every day.

I realize this is nothing like being a penguin. But you see what I mean.

tee minus two hours

Obviously, there's a lot of various anxieties and worries that will be keeping me up at night as I transition my life into one more self-motivated, but I've got to tell you - stuff just keeps falling into place, people.

And there's nothing like stuff falling into place to make you feel like it's a sign that all along, this is the right path. To quote Stephanie Brown's mother when she discovered the internet, "wheeee! The world is my oyster!"

a fine line between love and hate

On the eve of my last day as a desk-bound working woman (well, a corporate desk anyway), some thoughts:

I love that my friends are willing to be cheerful and determinedly positive in those few moments when I lose my grip on brave and start wibbling my bottom lip. I also like that they're willing to go drinking heavily with me at a day's notice even though my email requesting such a presence was somewhat pathetic.

I hate that your last paycheck at any given corporation is withheld for about a week just to check whether you owe the company anything. Yes, Corporation For Which I've Never Even Held An Expense Account, DO make my financial life difficult for the next two weeks just in case I DIDN'T have that extra lunch that one time you DIDN'T pay for it.

I love that my parents have been so mind-numbingly, heart-breakingly COOL about this. The hardest moment in this whole decision was asking my father if he thought I was a snob, or lazy, for choosing to take a different path than he did - my father had to work his tuchus off for forty years and he did it for his family, would he think I wasn't capable of the same sacrifices? When he told me he was proud that I had a chance to make a choice not available to him, I totes nearly lost it. And my mom, well, y'all know my mom. Lady is just COOL.

I hate that I might not need to buy a monthly metrocard. I hate it so much it makes me want to cry. I actually refuse to not buy one, even if it means I'm not being economical, simply because I refuse to believe I won't be enough of a part of this city to NEED one.

I love the idea of business lunches, with myself, outside in the park.

I hate sending query emails.

I love finally realizing that if a desk job has stifled my creative writing impulses, then yes, it DOES make sense to get a non-desk job, if only to release those trapped little impulses into my days.

I hate the self-loathing I'll go through when I'm lazy.

I love that I have a good damn reason not to be lazy.

I hate the thought of forgetting to eat meals because that's what I do when I work from home.

I love Stuart. Srsly. I literally would not be doing this if he didn't see the great positive brilliance of it all, every time I don't.

I HATE HATE HATE that my iBook just-over-two-years-old hard drive is in fatal failure and I need to get it serviced and replaced. SCREW YOU AND YOUR TERRIBLE TIMELINESS, COMPUTER.

I love this one thing I'll never forget: when I thought I was really being flat-out fired, at the beginning of all this (before the second, very elucidating conversation with the boss), I called Biscuit and I told him and he said "THAT'S FUCKING FANTASTIC!". I love that I actually know someone who'd have that reaction, who's so in tune to the silver lining that HE IS ACTUALLY THE LINING ITSELF.

I hate this!

I love this!

two roads diverged in a wood and I

Oh, hey, there you are. Patiently waiting for me to blog about something other than home renovation or the World Cup. Have you been waiting long?

Can I get you something? A tea? Coffee? Iced venti non-fat extra-hot four-shot vanilla three-pump-hazelnut soy latte with whip? No? Pull up a chair, I'll shake the cobwebs off my brain and tell you where I've been.

On July 7th, I'm leaving the job I've had for four years, since a week after graduating from college. It's been a lovely, stable four years but it's time for me to move on - a decision my boss and I came to mutually and which works for everyone. The job, without getting into too much detail, has become more admin-heavy than it was when I started and there's very little room to move through no fault of my boss. So, I'm leaving. I'll still be writing pretty regularly for them, but I won't be sitting in the office.

But no, I'm not leaving for another job. That would be easy, I admit, and maybe some cynics among you may say the smart thing to do. But the other jobs I'm qualified for are, well, a lot like this one. And in four years, I might find myself in a similar position - four years on and I haven't started the career I really want, which is to write.

So as of July 10th, I'm reporting to my own desk, in my own office, to work on my writing. Not just my own woefully unpaid fiction (although I have to dedicate a certain percentage of each day to that or a certain fiesty little redhead will eat me for breakfast) but paid freelance writing on the web and elsewhere. Let it be known that I have no idea how or to what level of success I'm going to be doing this, only that I hold in my hand a precious few leads and gigs and I'll be chasing for more.

And I'll be looking for part-time work to supplement the writing income. I'm being arrogant and naive and bull-headed right now, hoping to only work part-time so that the rest of my week can be spent on writing. Perhaps I will be chased naked and scratched and weeping out of this conviction but that is for me to find out and not for you to crow about afterwards, you naysayers.

If you're getting the vibe that I'm terrified, give yourself a cookie. I'm white-knuckled, wide-eyed terrified. I've never really had to work for myself before, and I'm not entirely sure where I'll find the necessary reserves of determination and discipline required. Maybe in that new organized closet?

Most days, I feel like a cartoon character who's been trying to push a car up a hill with her back and as the car starts its inexorable slide back down the hill, her feet are on fire with all the "not that way!" scrabbling she's doing. Not that way! I keep yelling at myself. But that way I'm going, and what's more, I pointed the car down the hill myself. So there! How was that for a metaphor?

Or perhaps I feel like I've been fighting for years to get those stupid chinese handcuff things off my fingers, wiggling and whining and berating myself for being trapped - only to find myself with two free fingers and no idea what to do now.

Are you seeing what I'm saying? All this freedom, freedom I used to crave from the confines of a 9 to 5 box, is suddenly mine. The shove I knew I needed has finally arrived. But what do you want me to DO with it? Can I get back in the box now?

It's a daily struggle to remind myself not to go running back to the box after a week on the outside, because if I do, I'll never have any proof that I can do this, this freedom thing, this self-motivated thing, this writer thing.

So, putting aside all the jumbled metaphors, I'm going to be unemployed and writing, looking for the elusively perfect fit of part-time work (dog-walking? espresso-slinging? proofreading? research-work?) that will leave me with twenty or so hours a week in which I pay myself, so to speak, to be brave.

Don't get me wrong. It's exciting. Exciting like riding a rollercoaster built on a swamp and manned by pirates. Swamp pirates.